


Asylum

by tb_ll57



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Colonial Politics, F/M, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Post-Endless Waltz, Preventers (Gundam Wing), Undecided Relationships, Witness Protection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-23 17:00:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 66,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10723497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tb_ll57/pseuds/tb_ll57
Summary: “I want to defect,” Winner said plainly. “I can trade information for asylum.”





	1. One

Zechs snorted into his wineglass. 'Very funny,' he said. 'I suppose the next one starts, "A priest, a rabbi, and a–"' He cut himself off, quickly finishing his crabcake and wiping his fingers on his napkin. 'Colonials at three o’clock,' he warned under his breath. Sally and Noin immediately stood straighter, polite smiles appearing on their faces as they turned toward the delegation wandering toward them. Sally, ever the most diplomatic, stepped forward to do the official greeting.

'Minister Benat,' she said courteously. 'And Ambassador Lazar. It’s a pleasure to see you both tonight.' She presented her hand, and Benat took it, bowing smoothly over it as Lazar managed a stiff smile.

'We’re glad to have been invited,' Benat replied graciously as he straightened. 'Visits to Earth are so rare these days.'

'A shame,' Zechs couldn’t stop himself from saying. Lazar’s eyes flickered to him, just as Noin’s elbow connected with his ribcage. But Benat laughed a deprecating little laugh.

'I see you still speak your mind, your Highness,' he countered urbanely. 'It’s a quality that has stood you in good stead over your career. A little clarity is never a bad thing.'

'I’m afraid I lack my sister’s political acumen, Minister,' Zechs answered. 'She’s far more conscious of the appropriate than I am.' He passed it off with a shrug. 'I, like my father King Peacecraft, have always been more direct than discreet.'

'Nonsense, sir; you are the height of courtesy.' Benat took Noin’s hand then, performing another small bow. 'You ladies look lovely tonight. I wonder if you welcome a chance to be out of uniform?'

'I welcome a little fresh air and good food,' Noin said lightly. 'Although it’s probably best if I don’t have much access to all the pastry.' She gestured behind herself to the overburdened marvel that was the buffet. The semi-circle table was fifteen feet long– Zechs had paced it off earlier– and was crowned by a huge confectionary statue of the Sanq palace, complete with icing turrets and rose gardens of marzipan. Delicate cakes and tarts had been making their way onto Noin’s plate for hours, and Zechs himself had been persuaded to indulge in rather a lot of bresiliennes, a childhood favourite of almonds, chocolate, and rum.

Even Lazar smiled at that one, while Benat laughed aloud. 'If pastry could make all women glow as you do tonight, Agent Noin, then chefs would be gods and men would be very, very lucky,' the Minister praised her.

'For once, the Minister and I agree,' a new voice said, and Sally stepped back to reveal Quatre Winner coming to join them. The Gundam pilot-turned-mining mogul smiled a much warmer smile at Noin as she exclaimed a greeting and embraced him. He got the same treatment from Sally, who kissed him on the cheek as well before she released him. 'It’s lovely to see you both,' he told them.

'You know the Preventers?' Lazar interrupted cooly.

Winner barely glanced at the Ambassador. 'We fought together during the war. It was my very great pleasure to stand alongside Miss Lucrezia and Miss Sally in the defence of this very kingdom.' The young man turned appraising eyes to Zechs. 'And, of course, I am familiar with Prince Peacecraft by reputation, though we did not have the pleasure of meeting before I returned to the colonies.' He held out a hand, and Zechs took it, not so much as flickering an eyelid. Though Winner was of course knew exactly who he was and had, of course, fought against him in one war and alongside him in the second, he had long ago agreed to keep the secret. Zechs’s double identity, former soldier and ad-hoc Preventer, and Milliardo Peacecraft, the deferred but active Prince of Sanq, made him a doubly useful person–- but only as long as the two men stayed separate.

'The pleasure is mine,' Zechs said politely. 'I know your reputation as well, Mr Winner. Feared by the enemy, and well respected by all.'

'My only enemies these days are environmentalists,' Winner said drily. His grip was strong and dry. 'Your Highness, I understand you were taken out of Sanq at a young age. I’m something of an amateur linguist myself, and I had the opportunity to learn a bit of Sanqian while I was here at your sister’s School of Pacifism. I wonder if you still speak the local dialect?'

That startled him. 'I– yes,' he answered cautiously. 'Je me rappele toujours un peu.'

His surprise deepened when Winner answered immediately. 'L’Eau et le Feu parlent ils Sanqoi?'

'Non, ils le font pas,' he said, his confusion growing. Winner was relaxed as if nothing were out of place. Something, Zechs suddenly knew, was not right. He consciously kept his expression light, only mildly interested. 'Is this a private communication?' he asked in Sanqian.

'I want to defect,' Winner said plainly. 'I can trade information for asylum.'

My God, Zechs thought. And forced himself to keep smiling.

 

**

 

'I can’t be entirely sure,' Zechs admitted helplessly. 'I haven’t actually spoken Sanqian since I was a child. Anyway, the ruling family weren’t native, not since my grandfather.'

'Relena learnt it when she came back after the war,' Noin said.

_'I’m concerned at the moment with why Quatre Winner was speaking it,' Une interrupted, leaning closer to her viewscreen. 'So he approached you in front of the L4 delegation and told you he wanted to defect to the ES?'_

'He must have chosen Sanqian to be absolutely sure Lazar and Benat wouldn’t understand,' Sally mused. 'He covered his tracks. He led us all right into talking about his time in Sanq. He even gave a line about being interested in languages. I never would have known they were talking about anything important–- I assumed it was weather, the regular conversation at these things.' She shrugged. 'He made it look like he was just showing off.'

 _'Winner has been lobbying for some very conservative legislature,'_ Une said. _'And he’s come out publicly for further devolution of the Federated Colonies and the Earth Sphere Alliance. Why would he do that and then pass along a secret communique?'_

'He could be serious,' Noin said. She frowned. 'In fact I always thought it was odd how much he changed after the Colonies separated from the Earth Sphere. It was strange that he was involved with that business about declaring Mars an outlying colony. He never agreed with it before, and then suddenly he was preaching on international television about Earth trying to steal jobs from colonials.'

Zechs snorted, a most ungentlemanly sound. 'We could have used the support,' he said. 'Mars was failing before Noin and I ever got there after the Eve War. We were begging the colonies to get involved.' But the Earth Sphere council had chosen appeasement with the young Federated Colonies government, and Mars had reverted to colonial control. The Terraforming Project had failed within a year, underfunded and unacknowledged. The Red Planet sat empty once again.

That hadn’t been the end of problems between the Colonies and Earth. The Federation had gone from arrogant to aggressive, rolling over the protesting Earth Sphere Council without even looking back. Matters had devolved nearly to the Alliance days–- travel between Earth and the Colonies was heavily regulated, and the careful work done by people like Zechs’s sister Relena to mesh the fragile Colonial economies with the stronger Earth-based markets had been undone by a few well-timed blitz attacks like prohibitive tariffs and sanctions against key exports from space–- such as minerals mined by Winner Enterprises. Without Mars and without L4, Earth had no-where to turn for desperately needed energy resources. Power had swung to the FC immediately. Relations had been tense. Hotheads had called for war. Cooler personalities had prevailed, but the occasional ugly riot made headlines, and when the FC had finally relented and allowed trade to resume, it came at a very high cost.

 _'This summit lasts three more days,'_ Une said finally. _'That gives us very little time to devise a plan for extraction. The lengths Winner went to keep his request quiet suggests to me that he’s being watched heavily.'_ She reached for a pad of paper and began to make notes. _'Sally, Noin, I want you back at HQ tonight. Zechs, you’re our contact with Winner. Be very cautious. Let him know we’ve heard him and see if he can give you any more details. And I will contact the President immediately. We have to do this fast and we have to do it quiet–- if we’re allowed to do it at all.'_

'Why wouldn’t we be allowed?' Noin demanded. 'If he’s scared enough to ask us to get him out, then it’s got to be pretty damn bad. He’s a Gundam pilot!'

'He was,' Zechs said. 'Eleven years ago.'

 _'He doesn’t have a Gundam now,'_ Une agreed. _'And even if he did, he can’t use it. We’re not at war with the Federated Colonies, thank God. But if we’re not at war with them, then offering political asylum to their citizens is not the act of a friendly nation. Winner isn’t exactly low-profile. If we allow him to defect, we could start a lot of trouble we don’t want and aren’t equipped to handle.'_

'We’ve got to get back to the party,' Sally said. 'It might be noticeable if all three of us are missing. I suggest, Zechs, that you find a way to slip Winner a little reassurance. Noin and I will make our apologies to Relena and take off.'

'I’ll brush up on my Sanqian,' Zechs said.

 

**

 

He had to wait until nearly ten, watching the Colonial delegation without being obvious, losing track of a half-dozen conversations with various Earth Sphere officials in the process. It was enough time to notice that Winner was never more than a few feet from Lazar or Benat at any time, and that they were watching him as closely as Zechs was watching all three of them. When he finally determined that he wasn’t going to get to speak to Winner alone, he put on a smile and simply put himself in Winner’s path.

'Your Highness,' Winner said cheerfully. 'I’ve been so enjoying myself tonight. And your sister is a marvel.' He gestured to Relena, who was making use of the dance floor and her crowd of admirers. Probably, Zechs thought, to extract ruthless deals and air-tight promises. His sister was nothing if not determined.

'She’s a formidable woman,' Zechs agreed. 'Beware her invitations. People never seem to be able to turn them down.'

Winner laughed at that. But, Zechs saw, looking closely at him, his eyes weren’t telling the same story. He wasn’t blinking often enough. And he had a nervous habit with his left hand, rubbing his thumb over his pointer finger relentlessly. Zechs noticed Lazar drifting closer to them, and raised his voice just slightly to pitch the distance. He spoke in Sanqian.

'We’ve passed your request to President Hemi,' he said. 'Tell me now what to expect.'

'Two men in our security detail are assigned specifically to me,' Winner answered, his gaze locked somewhere over Zechs’s shoulder. He took a sip of wine. 'All my communication is monitored. I believe they have a way of listening even to my private conversation. Hence the dialect. I thought it would buy you time.'

'You’re going to have to trust us to do the best we can. We won’t be able to risk keeping you constantly informed.'

'I understand.' Winner gave him a lazy smile that didn’t quite hide the tension in his eyes. 'I repeat my offer of information. I don’t have anything on paper, but I’ve been present at several meetings.'

'I’ll pass that along.' They had been talking too long, apparently, because Benat was abruptly at their side, clapping Winner on the shoulder and regarding Zechs with an expression absolutely devoid of suspicion. He was, Zechs decided, very good.

'You two still chattering away,' the minister said. 'Fine young men like yourselves should be out with the ladies, enjoying the party.' He looked about as if he weren’t aware of every movement in the room. 'Where have those beautiful Preventer agents got to?'

'Unfortunately they were called back to Headquarters,' Zechs explained. He saluted the older man with his champagne. 'I, however, am on holiday.'

He got a laugh for that, and thought he’d passed the test. 'Well, enjoy it,' Benat told him genially. 'If you don’t mind, though, I’m going to steal your companion here. Quatre, I want to introduce you to the Croatian Senator.'

'Duty calls,' Winner excused himself. He handed his glass to a passing server, and offered Zechs his hand in parting. 'Thank you again for your indulgence with my poor accent, Prince Peacecraft.'

'Not at all. You speak very clearly.'

Something loosened in Winner’s shoulders, just for a moment. He inclined his head, and allowed Benat to lead him away. Zechs watched them go, feeling a little heavy-hearted. He had seen many trapped men in his life. And he didn’t think Winner truly expected to escape his cage. It was a last-ditch effort, a kamikaze streak for freedom or death.

Seeing him alone, the elderly Countess Brundage began to head toward him. Zechs forced himself to take her arm and offer her a dance, and forget about Winner for the evening.


	2. Two

Zechs let himself in by hitting the latch with his elbow and kicking the door in with his knee. 'I’ve got the files,' he called.

Noin stood up from the table, setting her coffee aside. She grabbed the box from him, and Zechs detoured to the coffee carafe. There was a plate of pastry beside it–- all of Noin’s favourites–- and Zechs selected a large palm cake, biting in appreciatively.

'Have you seduced the kitchen staff?' he demanded. The pastry all but melted on his tongue. He took another one with him back to the table.

'No, but I may have to marry the chef,' she answered absently, rifling through the manilla folders that stuffed the large box Zechs had just lugged up from the mail room. 'There’s shit in here dating back to 192.'

'I think they sent us everything they ever had on the Winner family,' he agreed, sliding into a chair. 'I asked for some follow-up on Benat and Lazar as well. It’ll be here in an hour or two.'

Noin looked up. 'Did you tell them it was urgent?'

'That’s as fast as they could get it done. And it’s all off the record-– I had to pull in a lot of favours.' He’d had to wheedle, to be precise, and that had only worked because he’d once commmanded the agent in charge of paperwork relating to diplomatic activity. 'Anyway, it’s all moot if the President refuses Winner’s request.'

'He was a really good kid, you know. Heart on his sleeve.' Noin selected a folder and flipped it open. Absently she added, 'Hell of a pilot, too.'

Zechs had his own memories of that. He had fought Quatre Winner in Space near Libra, after all. Not quite the duelist that Heero Yuy had been; but then, Winner, unlike Yuy or Zechs himself at that time, had a healthy desire to live.

'Son of Kadar Winner, son of Umair ibn Khaldun, who emmigrated from India in AC 102.' Her eyebrows shot up, and she turned the file toward Zechs. 'He’s got twenty-eight sisters,' she said disbelievingly.

Zechs couldn’t hide surprise of his own. He took the folder, lifting the top page to read. 'In-vitro fertilisation,' he read aloud. 'From several different women, it looks like. Lucky them.' He pursed his lips. 'This says Quatre was naturally conceived and delivered, though. Mother dies in childbirth. Father dead at forty-seven, satellite explosion. And sister number twenty-nine killed in a hit-and-run on L4 six years ago. Circumstances suspicious.'

'Suspicious how?'

'Particularly vicious. And Winner folded on a deal with the Terraforming Porject within six hours.' He sat forward. '"Iraia Winner seen leaving Javaid Rustam Hospital at six fifteen in the evening after working a double shift. Witnesses reported seeing a black sedan take off from up the street, shooting across traffic to run down Winner." It had to jump the pavement to hit her, and clipped a second doctor walking with her. Then it took off.' He read a little further into the report. 'The crime scene team found skid marks where the car was sitting. No question it was a deliberate hit. That sounds like a credible family threat to me.' There were pictures from the hospital attached, and he showed them to Noin, watching her wince.

'Poor woman,' she said sympathetically. 'Jesus.'

Zechs turned to a new folder. 'Some very fishy business in his accounts the last six years. Some huge donations to the Free Colony Party.'

'Those people are glorified jingoists,' Noin said, reluctantly setting aside the glossies to refill her coffee. 'They’re fanatics who need someone to hate. That Saul Marcus was on Good Morning Channel 32 yesterday, screaming about "conspiracies at the highest level."' She snorted. 'Apparently, you and Relena are in league with Hemi and Lady Une to assassinate anyone who doesn’t agree with your plan to take over the universe. The fact that no-one is actually dead doesn’t seem to have registered.'

'Forensic accounting has some notes here,' Zechs said. 'They said it looks like he’s cooking the books. He’s got several dummy accounts for businesses that aren’t actually making any profit–- he’s just shifting funds to make it look like they are.' He paused. 'I wonder who he’s hiding the money from?'

'Where’s the trail lead?'

It took him a minute to find, and longer to unravel the complex notes left by the Preventers’ accountant. 'It looks like–- it looks like he’s funneled it to his sisters. Or nieces and nephews. There’s some trust funds here. All of them based on Earth or other colonies, not L4.' He shook his head. 'He was getting his family out first.'

'Have we got the go-ahead on their LUDs from the Sanq palace?'

'Yes we do,' Sally announced from the door. She bore her own large in her arms as she marched to the table, her bare biceps flexing with the weight of the box. 'And Relena kindly granted us access to her network so we can monitor their email.'

'Une’s going to want a retroactive warrant on that,' Zechs said.

'I put Jannicke on it,' Sally told him. 'And I have good news. We have a go-ahead from Hemi.'

'Excellent,' Noin said fiercely. 'I knew he’d agree.'

'Well, I certainly didn’t.' Sally glanced about and discovered the pastry. 'I thought for sure he’d reject the application, even with Quatre dangling that line about information like a golden, gift-wrapped fishing lure.'

'We’ve got four calls to the L4 embassy last night,' Zechs said, looking up from the folder holding the list from the colonial delegation’s suite in the Sanq palace. 'One forty-seven minutes, two less than twenty, and one an hour long.'

'That’s not unusual,' Noin said. 'They could have been discussing the summit.'

'The pass-code indicates that all of them were conducted by Lazar.' Zechs frowned. 'Sally, do we know what this number is?' He jabbed at the one in question as Sally bent over his shoulder. She shrugged.

'No, but that’s easily solved.' She opened her box, and brought out a directory. She checked the number Zechs held out, and a moment later had the directory open to the correct page. Then she whistled.

'What?' Noin asked.

'We could be in trouble, folks. That was a call to the private home line of Solvej Mireia. She’s the official team linguist at the embassy.'

'How long was the call?' Noin demanded.

'Thirty-two seconds,' Zechs said. 'Long enough to leave a message? To make a request?' He flipped through the rest of the LUDs. 'No return call.'

'But they suspect Quatre,' Sally said. She tossed the directory to the table. 'We’ve got our all-clear. We need to have a plan for extraction.'

'I’m concerned about the threat of violence,' Noin interrupted, raising a hand in a cautious gesture. 'If there was a government-sponsored hit on his sister, we have to assume immediate danger to his person if they discover his defection. I think this may be a case for witness protection.'

The three Preventers shared a grim look. 'If it is, then we’ve got bigger things to think about than just a quick rescue,' Sally said. 'If we have to hide him...'

'I’ll liaise with the Department of Justice,' Zechs offered after a moment.

'I’ll keep on the delegation,' Sally volunteered. 'I’ll put a team on them and see if we can’t devise enough distractions to keep them from so much as glancing at Quatre-– or contacting a translator.'

'And I’ll keep up with the files,' Noin decided. 'I’ll see if we can turn up anything useful.'

 

**

 

Une was the last to join them, her harried look and mussed hair evidence of rush. 'My office,' she told the group waiting for her in the hall. 'My apologies for my lateness. I was being appraised of the decision of the ICJ.' She held the door as they came to it, and the Preventers filed inside.

'The International Court of Justice?' Sally asked, surprise evident in her expression as she took a chair before Une’s desk. 'How did they get involved?'

'President Hemi thought it wise to consult the judges for an advisory opinion regarding this case,' Une explained, seating herself with a sigh.

'We’ve had defections before,' Zechs said.

'Yes, but this is the first case from the Federated Colonies. Under the current Asylum Act applications for asylum must be made through a proscribed procedure verified by the Secretary of State of the receiving nation. Moreover we do not have substantial evidence that Quatre Winner can be properly designated a humanitarian refugee.'

Noin exchanged glances with her partners. 'We feel we can establish a pattern of threat to his family, including the murder of a close relative.'

'But you can’t prove it was done by the government of the FC,' Une finished. 'Which is why Hemi turned to the ICJ. If Winner _does_ have information regarding corrupt activity within the FC, we need a legal way to secure his testimony. Which he can’t give if he’s being held against his will on L4.'

'Which is where I come in,' a man’s voice said. The Preventers turned to see a middle-aged black man leaning against Une’s doorway. 'Breixo Beito,' he introduced himself. 'DoJ. I’ll be unofficially joining your team.' He nodded to Zechs, who recognised him from their conversations earlier in the day.

'Wait a minute,' Noin protested. 'This came to the Preventers, not Justice.'

'I called him in,' Zechs soothed her.

Beito came all the way into the office, closing the door. 'Let’s not argue jurisdiction,' he said to Noin. 'I’m not here to work against you. The subject has established contact with you. He trusts you and he knows your faces. That’s good enough for me.'

'The International Court has advised the President that Quatre Winner’s best chance at freedom may lie with the Witness Protection Programme, if he meets the criteria,' Une explained. 'We’re operating in a grey area. Under the Witness Protection Act of 199, if any activity connected with us puts Winner in danger, we can recommend him to the programme. Under the Treaty of Brussels of AC 197, however, we cannot encourage Quatre Winner into any activity which is in direct contradiction of the laws of the Federated Colonies– of which he is a legal citizen.'

'But if Winner performs an illegal act of his own volition, and comes to us for help, we are obliged to act according to _our_ laws,' Beito finished. 'It’s not going to be pretty, but I think we can swing it.'

Sally rubbed her forehead. 'I don’t claim to understand a word either of you just said,' she told the room. She dropped her hand, and shrugged. 'I’m interested in the bottom line. The L4 delegation takes flight back to the colonies in thirty-six hours. And I believe there is substantial danger to his person if we fail to get him out now that he’s made his move. From the government or otherwise,' she added.

'I agree,' Une said. 'I’ve read your brief. Can we pull this together in time?'

'We’ve got our lab working double-time,' Noin said. 'We need to quietly brief Relena’s security, and we need to be ready to hustle the Ambassador and Minister Benat to the shuttle port before they can find a way to stay in-country before we get Quatre hidden.'

Une nodded. 'And how do you plan to appraise Winner of the situation? Your report didn’t mention.'

'We hadn’t quite thought of a way when we wrote it,' Zechs said with a little smile.

'I take it you have, now?'

'We have, and best of all, it will look absolutely natural.' Beside him, Sally and Noin were smirking.

Beito looked puzzled. 'If someone could fill me in on the joke?' he asked.

Sally laughed aloud. 'As it turns out,' she said smugly, 'Zechs’s sister speaks fluent Sanqian.'


	3. Three

'May I cut in?' Relena Peacecraft asked brightly.

Quatre and his current partner, the ageing Lady Noventa, came to a stop in their waltzing. Lady Noventa immediately turned a fond look on Relena. 'Of course you may,' she said warmly. She withdrew her hand from Quatre’s, absently patting a stray lock of hair back into her matronly chignon. 'It was a pleasure to dance with you, Mr Winner, but I’m happy to turn you over to someone young enough to enjoy it.'

'The pleasure was all mine,' Quatre answered with a smile. 'Thank you for indulging me, Madam.' He bowed to the Lady as she moved off the dance floor, and bowed again to Relena before holding out his arm. 'To what do I owe this pleasure?' he asked her as he gently took her waist and turned her back into the flow of the music.

Relena answered in smooth Sanqian. 'My brother tells me you’re interested in our local language.'

His large blue eyes– no, Relena decided, green eyes– blinked at her. 'I have some limited skill with language,' he said, replying in kind. 'Prince Peacecraft was kind enough to indulge me. I think largely because he was too polite to tell me to go away.'

'Not at all. Milliardo needs some challenges in life. He was in danger of becoming lazy.' Quatre was an excellent lead, his hand firm on her waist and his posture perfect for the light, almost mincing dance. Satisfied he wouldn’t let her step on his toes, Relena stopped concentrating on moving and turned her attention completely to the conversation. 'Actually, I’m surprised you managed to retain so much from your time here. It was so many years ago, and it was such an unhappy visit for you.'

'I admit that when I was told I’d be attending the summit in your kingdom, I brushed up quite a bit,' he said, and led her through a chasse underarm turn that flared her floor-length silk skirt. She heard a few appreciative murmurs as they came back into each other’s arms. 'It has some regional similarities to Modern French,' he added.

'My adoptive parents believed in a firm grounding in the languages,' Relena offered. 'As well as the classics, though I think I’d be hard pressed to produce ancient Greek on demand.'

He laughed politely. 'I think your parents and my father came from the same school. I had to translate all the epics. I rather liked the mediaeval romances.'

'Chretien de Troyes?' she asked. He brought her into a weave as they met a crowd of other dancers, who parted subtly to give them room. 'I particularly loved "Erec et Enide."'

'I was always fonder of "Le Roman de Perceval ou le Conte du Graal."' He screwed up his face, then recited, ' _"Ce fu au tans qu’abre flourissent, foillent boschage, pre verdissent, et cil oesil en lor latin cantent doucement au matin, et tote riens de joie aflamme."_ '

That made her smile. 'It was the time when the trees were in bloom, when new leaves grew lush in the woods, and the meadows were grassy green, when the birds twittered sweet songs to welcome the dawn, and all things were ardent with joy.'

The barest pressure of his hand at the right beat sent her automatically into a wing to spiral, and Relena turned her head from right to left for a little extra push at the end of the wing. When they were once again face to face, Quatre said, 'As much as I’m enjoying our conversation, Princess, might I ask why we’re conducting all of it in Sanqian? I’m not that good at it, and I’m starting to realise how offencive my accent truly is.'

Relena chuckled. 'It could use a little work, but it’s no worse than mine was when I started.' She curled her fingers a little more into his hand. 'We’re giving your Ambassador something innocuous to listen to. And quite a lot of it.'

For a moment his face froze into that courteous expression he always wore. His hand on her waist gripped too tightly, but immediately released. Before too many beats had passed, he said, 'Does he suspect me?'

'He tried to contact a translator through your embassy. We’ve intercepted the call.' Relena made herself smile, though she wanted to stop dead and put her arms about him at the sudden fragility in his tone. 'Has it been so awful, Quatre?' she asked gently.

For a moment she could see the grieving young boy who’d come to her school in the middle of a war, so many years ago. Then the man was back, tired, old before his time, and jaded. 'I don’t know what to do if you can’t help me,' he answered softly. 'I’ve come to hate it. I wish I’d never gone back to Space, your Highness.'

She licked her lips to wet them. 'Your flight is at eight o’clock in the morning. At four o’clock you will take pills. They won’t permanently harm you, but you will fall asleep. To all appearances, you’ll be dead.'

He blinked rapidly as he digested that. 'That’s a little Shakespearean, don’t you think? The Ambassador will suspect something if you ask him to bury me in an open tomb.'

Relena grinned. 'You’re a little old to play Romeo, though if you ever have a Juliet, I want to meet her. I will be very distraught by the death of an old friend. I will insist on holding your body for an examination conducted by my doctors. And when your companions protest, I will be very happy to further insist that they leave my kingdom before they become suspects in a murder.'

She gave him time to absorb all she’d told him. It wasn’t long; after all, he’d been expecting them to come back with something. 'They will suspect it. My family–-'

'You’ll be buried very quickly. And very publicly. They’ll never know it wasn’t real, Quatre. Your family will be safe.'

The silence was longer this time. And the waltz was ending, segueing into a livelier foxtrot. Relena stepped away from him, joining the scattered applause for the musicians as several couples near the centre of the floor took up the dance. Quatre had the presence of mind to mimic her, though his thoughts were clearly elsewhere. Relena reclaimed his attention with a light touch on his arm, and he graciously led her from the floor back to her table at the head of the room. When they reached her chair, he moved to hold it for her, and Relena artfully knocked her silverware from her setting in a glittering crash. They both knelt to clear it, and she removed the small paper envelop from her glove and pressed it on him under the cover of their bodies. He had it stowed away in moments, and they rose with her knives and spoons just as a server appeared to whisk them away. Quatre held her chair again, and Relena sat, this time without incident.

He said, quietly, 'Thank you, Relena.'

She turned her head to smile up at him. 'Thank you, Quatre.' She caught his hand just before he pulled it away from her chairback. 'I very much enjoyed our dance.'

Noin, standing on the opposite side of the room with Zechs, shook her head in patent amazement. 'After all this time Relena can still surprise me,' she muttered into her wine glass. 'Do you think it’s too late to sign her on as a Preventer?'

'I don’t think the family can handle two double agents,' Zechs retorted drily. He unobtrusively touched his ear, thumbing down the volume on the mic he wore hidden inside the cartilage. 'She was damn smooth, wasn’t she,' he added, finding himself vaguely proud of her.

'She was perfect. Lazar didn’t look twice.'

'I want to go get some sleep,' Zechs said. 'Four o’clock will be here all too soon, and I have a feeling it’s going to be a long day, tomorrow.'

'Amen to that.'

 

**

 

The screaming started at six in the morning when a maid found Minister Benat giving Quatre Winner chest compressions on the bedroom floor. Her frightened alarum summoned the butler, still in his bedclothes, and the butler summoned emergency services and the royal family’s security before administering CPR himself.

Zechs was with his younger sister in the Blue Velvet Room, eating a fine breakfast of poached eggs, kippers, rashers and fried tomatoes. Rather, Zechs was eating, and heartily, knowing he would need the energy for a long day; Relena was cutting her food into ever-smaller bits and pushing it artistically about her plate. Zechs spared her a small smile between bites, and managed to drink all of his coffee before the palace was plunged into a full security crash and the Blue Velvet Room was flooded by guards in black uniforms.

Relena was on her feet instantly. 'What’s going on, Reaney?' she asked levelly, tossing her napkin to her plate.

'Nothing you need to concern yourself with, your Highnesses,' Reaney, their chief of security, answered. It was a valiant attempt, despite eight years of experience that neither sibling was going to listen to a damn thing he said. Zechs admired that kind of stubborn determination. And since Reaney was only acting from a script that Zechs himself had written, he had no particular complaints this morning.

'Reaney,' he said mildly, setting aside his cup and saucer. 'You know we’ll badger it out of you.'

Reaney even managed not to look put upon; he was a good man. He said, 'There has been a disturbance in the guest wing. Until we know better how it happened, we’re keeping this part of the building under lock-down to ensure your absolute safety.'

Relena had not been privy to the script, but she was quick on her feet, and she knew exactly what the 'disturbance' was. Even so, Zechs was impressed at how natural the concern on her face seemed, her automatic, almost motherly gesture toward the door. 'Our guests?' she demanded. 'What kind of disturbance?' She held up a hand to forestall Reaney’s protest. 'I’ll go mad if you don’t tell me more than that,' she warned him. 'You know I will.'

Reaney didn’t even sigh, though it was somewhat implicit in his momentary pause. 'One of the guests was found incapacitated. Until we can rule out natural causes, your Highness, we are treating this as an attack on the palace.'

'Incapacitated how?' Relena’s eyes were wide. 'Who was it?'

With a show of reluctance–- Reaney wasn’t quite the actor that Relena was-– their security chief replied, 'Quatre Winner, your Highness. He was found collapsed in his suite.'

'My God,' Zechs said, taking his turn. 'Is he all right?'

'I’m afraid not, Prince Milliardo. A medical team was called immediately, but they have been unable to resuscitate him.' Reaney paused again, then added, 'They’re trying hard, Princess.'

Relena did look pale as she sat again. It occurred to Zechs that his sister wasn’t quite that good, and he pressed her small hand under his. 'Are you all right?' he murmured.

She smiled wanly at him. 'How soon will we know the details?' she asked Reaney.

'I have people questioning the rest of his delegation, Princess. They’re trying to determine the circum–-' His shoulder comm beeped, and Reaney turned away from them to murmur into it. The low-voiced exchange continued for several moments, and Zechs gripped Relena’s hand again. This time her fingers turned to hold his. He could feel her pulse racing.

Reaney dropped his hand from the comm and turned back. Formally he said, 'I’m very sorry, your Highness. The medics have declared Mr Winner dead.'

 

**

 

Noin grimaced as Sally touched the inside of Quatre’s wrist with two fingers. 'He sure looks dead,' she said to her partner, shaking her head. 'We’re sure the lab got this right?'

'Paol assured me they’ve used it successfully with agents in the field. He’s fine.' Sally said it confidently, but Noin, accustomed to Sally’s subtle expressions, noticed relief when she dropped her fingers from Quatre’s pulse. 'I wish we didn’t have to use the bag, though,' she added.

'Me, too. But I think it’s necessary.' Sally nodded at the medical team–- three disguised Preventers specially stationed for the incident, and all of them armed with fake instruments. Only Benat and the butler had actually been trying to save Quatre’s life: the Preventers had been concerned with concealing his very shallow breathing and dangerously low pulse. 'At least he’ll never know,' Sally concluded. 'He’s a five on the Glasgow coma scale. How’s it going out there?'

'On schedule. Guillem and Danijel are questioning the Minister and the Ambassador in security basement. The fight for jurisdiction has already started–- Relena’s people are going head-to-head with the colonials’, insisting that it’s their turf and their investigation.' They watched as the other Preventers carefully lifted Quatre’s limp, half-dressed body from the carpet and into the body bag. It was highly disconcerting to watch his smooth, sleeping face disappear as they zipped it over his head. Noin couldn’t hold down a shudder, and looked away as they lifted the bag onto an emergency gurney. 'Benat didn’t help matters by trying to take care of it himself, instead of calling for help. We "accidentally" let a few reporters overhear about the lock-down and a death in the guest wing. There ought to be a good-sized crowd outside. We’ll make sure Relena gets to them before Lazar does.'

'Nice touch,' Sally complimented. They fell in behind the team wheeling Quatre’s body down the hall. 'You okay to stay here while the pieces shake out? I want to ride along with the bus.'

'You just don’t trust anyone else to be a competent doctor,' Noin said, grinning. 'When he wakes up, tell him he did good.'

Sally returned the smile, but hers was feral. 'I’ll tell him he’s free,' she answered.


	4. Four

From the corner of his eye Zechs saw Relena press the slim hand of Shahnaz Winner-Temime, one of the seven Winner sisters who lived on Earth and one of only four who had chosen to attend the funeral. Shahnaz was bearing up well, her face proud behind the veil of fine black lace, but the subtle gesture of wiping a finger along her cheek gave her away. The two young children on Shahnaz’s other side were solemn, confused by the sadness of the day, fidgeting in their dark mourning clothes.

The dozen reporters who had been allowed to film the funeral were obeying the rules set out, under the watchful eye of both Preventers and security from the various heads of state in attendance. Cameras clicked quietly, without a flash though it was rainy and dim, and though a forest of microphones and video feeds surrounded them, they were silent, sober witnesses as the pallbearers arrived. One of them was a nephew of Quatre who was barely teenaged, but who had apparently been close to his beloved uncle; his young face, remarkably like Quatre’s, was puffy and red from crying. The other five Zechs recognised as men of the Maguanac Corps, who had been so loyal to Quatre during the wars. They, like most of Quatre’s family, did not know that the coffin was empty but for sandbags. The giant Rashid Maguanac was stony-faced, but he seemed much aged even from the man who had arrived just yesterday. The only sounds were small ones– a sniffle from somewhere, the whisper of fabric as someone shifted, the creak of a chair. The chanting of the protestors, banned from the graveside, but still audible from where they gathered at the gates. Though Zechs conceded that they had a right to be there, it infuriated him to know that there were still so many who had greeted the news of Quatre’s death with glee. Some were there simply to celebrate the death of a Gundam Pilot; some had come to make noise about the colonies and the sanctions. There was even a group of religious fanatics, armed with disgusting posters and signs, shouting about God’s vengeance on homosexuals. Zechs hadn’t even known that Quatre was one.

But it wouldn’t matter after this morning. Even knowing he was alive, part of Zechs was affected by the grief of the gathering as Quatre’s coffin was lowered into the earth. In a very real way, Quatre Winner was being buried, and in time, he would be forgotten.

When at last the pallbearers had stepped aside, Relena rose, squeezing Shahnaz’s hand a final time. She crossed the few feet across the lawn to the simple podium that had been erected facing the grave. Nearly an hundred faces looked back at her as she took her stance, pausing a moment to adjust her own hat as the breeze caught at its broad rim. She tilted the microphone a little closer to her, and began to speak. Zechs listened attentively as she began to speak.

'Quatre’s family have asked me to give the eulogy today,' she said. Her voice echoed slightly from the speakers placed behind the crowd. 'It is my very great honour to do so. It was, though, a difficult task to accept. Not because I don’t know what to say–- not because there isn’t anything to say. I think, rather, that there is too much. I could stand here for days and recount every memory I have of this too-young man that is being laid to rest, and I would still have touched on only the slightest aspects of who Quatre was.

'There are many here today, and many watching from their homes, who remember firstly that Quatre was a soldier. Some have even called him a terrorist; others call him hero. But so few ever stop to say that he was also a boy, and one of exceptional bravery. Quatre was only fifteen when he flew to Earth in a machine that was, yes, meant to kill. He came alone, in secret, expecting to give up his life for a cause that was at best abstract.' Relena shook her head, an instinctive-seeming gesture of denial. 'I asked him, once, if it was really so horrible to live in the colonies in the days of the Alliance. I expected self-righteousness. I expected a rant, I suppose. Childish reasons that couldn’t possibly defend the instigation of war.

'But I was the childish one. I was only fifteen myself; and like many teenaged girls, even those raised by vice-ministers, I had no real idea of the realities of life. Quatre was my teacher that day. He told me of the massacre of civilians on L2. He told me of the erosion of precious liberties-– the right to speak your mind, the right to meet in protest, the right to be represented by leaders who are responsible to the people. He told me of the minefield laid between D and E Areas, where shuttle crews still lost their lives as the mines drifted from a weakening magnetic field. He told me that certain books were restricted. That the name Heero Yuy had been erased from the libraries and the databases. He told me that people could disappear in the colonies, and never be heard from again.

'He told me what a long-dead woman wrote on the eve of the Second World War in AD 1936. This woman was Elizabeth II, the Queen of England, a woman whose grace and kindness Quatre shared. She wrote, "I can hardly believe that we have been called to this tremendous task... And the curious thing is, we are not afraid." That, to me, was the essence of Quatre’s determination to fight against what he believed were fundamental wrongs. And that was the first truth I learned about Quatre. That choice he made, at an age when I was still choosing nothing more arduous than which dress to wear to the spring formal-– that choice to act was fundamental to his soul.

'Some will remember that Quatre came from a privileged life. He was the heir of a wealthy family, educated, healthy, talented. But I was struck by how much he treasured those gifts which were his by birth. Quatre had a love of music unequaled by anyone I have ever met. I often wondered if, in a perfect world, he might have been a musician, lost in a universe of beauty and feeling. But Quatre believed in giving back. In 197 he opened a school for underprivileged children who might never have had the opportunity to hear Bach and Chopin, to see a play by Shakespeare, to bring their imagination to life with oils and clay. Some of the students of the Colonial School for the Promotion of the Arts are here today. In 198 Quatre joined the campaign for the destruction of the colonial minefield, helping to raise over seventy million. Quatre also raised funds for war orphans and for veterans’ hospitals.

'But, in a way, this is all the public side of Quatre. It was never all of him. Beneath this absolute determination to do good in this world, to live a life of outstanding character, witness, and charity, there was a young man who was very shy, and vulnerable, almost child-like in his desire to please. This was a young man who gave love willingly but never expected it returned. A young man who had an extraordinary capacity to feel the pain of others, because he suffered greatly himself. His experience during the war was horrific. Quatre was as much a victim of the wars that he fought as were those innocents he was trying to save. Like many veterans, he had Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. He spoke publicly about his experience in an effort to heal himself, but also to reach out to the many who suffered silently, believing they were alone in their pain. He received letters every year from men and women who were moved by his honesty. His sisters tell me that he saved each and every one of those letters, often writing back to their senders. Sitting here today is a woman with whom Quatre corresponded for years. They never met, but their friendship was deep.

'Quatre’s compassion and honesty were his hallmarks. His bright smile has appeared on television screens and magazine covers for a decade. His determination and strength made him a formidable man, but his goodness and his joy were his guides. We may never know why his life was cut so tragically short, when there was still so much for him to do. He spent his final days here on Earth, the planet that he fought for and always loved. He came here with the delegation from the Federated Colonies, once again stepping forward to act when others are too cautious or afraid. The summit in Sanq was an effort to bring the Earth Sphere and the Colonies together in mutual understanding, and I know that Quatre believed we have only ever been separated by distance. On his behalf, I ask everyone listening to believe as he did. We are the same people, whether born on the soil or in the stars. The jealousy, the suspicion, and the cynicism which have clouded our brotherhood in the past years are only illusions which mask our shared blood. On behalf of a man who once knew what it was to fight his brothers on Earth and in Space, I ask you to examine your hearts, and to conclude, as Quatre did, that we must rise above our petty disputes. Our only enemy is division and hatred. Our weapons, and our salvation, are the wisdom to reject those illusions, and the compassion to redress the wrongs, and the love to heal all wounds.

'Please join me in a moment of silence for Quatre Winner, a young man of uncommon quality. His life has been extinguished-– but not his light.'

 

**

 

 _'Relena Peacecraft made a strong statement for cooperation between the ES and the FC today at the funeral for colonial businessman Quatre Winner,'_ the pundit said. _'She seemed to be using the eulogy as an opportunity to underscore her own recent summit, where the hot topic is the lifting of the remaining sanctions from 204 and the opening of borders.'_

 _'I don’t know which Quatre Winner she knew, but it wasn’t the one we’ve become familiar with in recent years,'_ the second analyst responded. _'Peacecraft’s remarks also seemed to displace blame for Winner’s participation in Operation Meteor, the rebel faction which sent five Gundams to Earth in 195. Protest groups have been demonstrating in the streets over atrocities from the war since news of Winner’s death hit airwaves three days ago. Of course the real curiosity piece is the silence from all sides about the cause of death. There’s already allegations that Winner was assassinated–-'_

Noin turned off the television, and lowered the remote to her lap. Quatre had fallen asleep during the last talk show, a faint frown on his face as he slept. Zechs approved. A great deal of the extensive coverage had been unfavourable, as people took the opportunity to speak without fear of repercussion now that Quatre himself was beyond striking back. He knew from experience that allies would soon appear to fight the negative press, that Quatre’s many friends would offer tributes, that the press would tire of beating a downed man. Within a week, Quatre would be well on his way to sainthood–- especially once the first charges had been brought against the corrupt FC government.

There would be no bringing down the entire system, but Zechs expected that the publicity generated by the upcoming trials would dominate headlines for months. Quatre had been talking steadily since he’d awakened from his fake death, and no less than three heads of international law enforcement had been on hand to personally thank him for providing much-needed proof.

But right now, he looked tired beyond any man’s endurance, and he looked very alone.

Zechs stood, stretching his arms above his head, and Noin joined him as he slipped out the door, letting the conference room door shut silently on the man slumped at the table. 'Relena did a good job,' Noin offered, leaning against the wall opposite the door. Preventers HQ was empty–- it was a weekend–- and though there were no doubt some few last rays of sunshine outside, they were deep in the basements and undisturbed by anything but malfunctioning overhead lights. Zechs cracked his neck before taking up his own lean against the wall.

'It’s not easy to watch your own funeral,' he said. Noin raised an eyebrow at him, but he didn’t elaborate. He had once 'died'–- in despair over what he had tried to do in the War of 195, he had disappeared, retreating to the smallest colony he could find to lick his wounds. He had hated himself in those days. The funeral for Zechs Merquise had been a strange affair, in which many people had tried to say as little as possible. Unlike Quatre’s very public ceremony, however, the one for the leader of White Fang, liberator, madman, and devil, had been buried by the press almost before the small plaque had been placed.

'It’s not going to be easy for a long time now,' Noin said at last. 'First he’ll have to testify to the Grand Jury. That’ll take months. And Witness Protection is no jog in the park. He knew that when he decided to defect.'

'What I want to know is why he’s the only one in there,' Zechs said. 'Where are the other pilots?'

'Don’t be too hard on them. We can’t expect them to–-'

'Where have they been? It’s been years since anyone spotted Yuy or Maxwell. But Chang is in China. He could have come easily. And Barton’s in the colonies. Why wasn’t he helping Winner? They were comrades.'

'I don’t know,' Noin admitted. 'But that doesn’t mean there isn’t a reason. Maybe Quatre never asked, Zechs. Maybe he just didn’t want to endanger them. The Gundam Pilots aren’t exactly universally loved.'

Demonstrators in Luxembourg had burned effigies of Quatre in the capitol. Someone had gotten close enough to his home on L4 to spray-paint obscenities across his front door. They’d left a butchered dog on his lawn. And the news was at great pains to show clips of all of it.

'I think I’ll take him back to the bunks,' Noin offered after the silence that had fallen between them seemed too long. 'He could use a good night’s sleep, and he might get it, now that the hardest part is over.'

Zechs exhaled sharply, and straightened. 'Good luck. And sleep well yourself, Lucrezia.'

She kissed him on the cheek, to his bewilderment. 'Good night, Zechs.' He gazed after her as she slipped back into the conference room, and decided, once again, that he would never really know what made her do the things she did.

'Agent Merquise!'

Zechs turned quickly, and found Breixo Beito headed toward him. Zechs waited for the older black man to reach him, and was clapped firmly on the shoulder. 'Good evening,' he said.

'Good evening. Saw the funeral–- very touching. Your sister is an excellent speaker.'

'She speaks from the heart. She’s always been fond of Winner.'

Beito gestured back up the hall, and they began walking. 'I have some good news. I’ve got a team ready to start preparing him for the programme.'

'You’ve selected a location?' Zechs asked, surprised. 'That was fast.'

'We’ve been doing this for a long time,' Beito said cheerfully. 'We’re good at our job.'

'I’ll believe it when I see it,' Zechs teased mildly, and got a wink. 'May I ask where you’re planning to station him?'

'Since you’re going to be his contact–- yes, you can. But I would appreciate it if you’d keep it between us for the moment, until it’s officially cleared.' Zechs nodded, and Beito continued, 'We’ve got a place in Britain. Rural, small-town, and ethnic.'

'What’s it called?'

Beito held the door to the stairwell for him. 'Hope,' he said, 'of course.'


	5. Five

Deputy Prosecutor Lidia Guadalupe turned a page in her notebook. The sound echoed scratchily from her lapel microphone, causing new winces from the judges. Zechs, stationed in the balcony above with Beito and Noin, had to hurriedly mute his headphones as the feedback stung his eardrums.

'Third time,' Beito muttered, on his right.

Guadalupe was settled again. She said, her voice booming gently through the chamber, 'Mr Winner, please resume your testimony, referring to the events of December, AC 201.'

It had taken almost two months to get to this point, and they were only in the early stages of the official investigation. The International Court of Justice had been reluctant to take on the case, but Beito had done his job from the Department of Justice side. They’d finally convinced three states to join the case against the Federated Colonies–- at least in considering the questions of jurisdiction and the seriousness of the accused crimes. Zechs, by now so familiar with the issues that he could sing himself to sleep with them, was fiercely confident that they did have a case. And the man currently testifying was bringing the most important evidence–- his personal witness.

Quatre’s voice, snug to his ear through the ‘phones, began its recitation. '201 was an election year,' he said. His tone was careful and professional. He was well rehearsed, by now, having told his story dozens of times to officials of all stripes. Zechs couldn’t see much of Quatre’s face, even leaning over the balcony. The chamber they were using for the hearing was not the main court, but a small room in a minor wing with limited audience space. The storey-high windows were large enough to admit even the myopic daylight of a blustery day, but they were heavily curtained to protect the historic wallpaper. Consequently, the entire room was only dimly lit, and the overhead chandelier cast more shadows across the faces arrayed below than illumination. 'It was clear to me that the FC was foundering,' Quatre went on. 'There just-- there wasn’t anyone inspiring. We didn’t have any real leaders stepping forward. And the press had come out with accusations of corruption scandals, missing funds, votes for sale, that kind of thing. But there was no real accountability. The Majority Whip was forced to resign, and a month later he showed up as the new VP of an influential lobby group that got controversial legislation passed without a whimper of protest on the floor.'

Quatre paused to drink from his water glass, and Zechs propped his chin on his fist. It was difficult to imagine the past years of Quatre’s life, even knowing the story. Zechs had been only six when the Alliance had crushed his father’s kingdom, and didn’t remember particulars such as Quatre described now. He’d always held a rich contempt, though, for the kind of men who’d allowed corruption and criminal behaviour to flourish without challenging it–- collaborators, and cowards. He’d had to re-evaluate those old opinions, these last two months.

'There were contracts up for bid for mining. I was up for them, of course, Winner usually gets first go.' There were two translators on the floor, murmuring into microphones for the Japanese and Dutch judges. They listened, blank faced, as Quatre continued. 'I got an anonymous letter telling me to withdraw my bid. Of course I ignored it. Then I got a call from an insider in the Parliament. Same thing. I asked what was going on, and she hinted that they wanted the contract to go to another company who had donated heavily to some incumbents. It seemed like the usual politics, so I ignored it.'

Guadalupe nodded, shifting slightly behind her podium. 'Was that the last time?' she asked. She was not a warm woman. Her gaze was stern as she stared across the floor at Quatre, who responded, almost unconsciously, by straightening his slumped shoulders.

'That was the first time,' he corrected her. 'It happened again about three months later, another contract. This time for Mars. I was already working with the Terraforming Project and I offered to increase my involvement for half of the government bid.'

'What happened then?' she prompted.

Quatre’s swallow was audible over the mic. 'I told them I wouldn’t back down, because it was the right thing to do. The next day my sister was hit by a car outside of the hospital she worked at. It took her two days to die. She was in agony the entire time.' Zechs watched, uncomfortable, as Quatre hesitated. He had heard this part of the story before, seen for himself the pictures and medical reports, but something about the vast, inscrutable silence absorbing Quatre’s–- most fragile moments-- Something about it verged on humiliation, an exposure that was not kindly or well-disposed.

But Quatre recovered himself, with an indrawn breath. Zechs relaxed, only then realising how tense he had gone, himself.

'She was like a mother to me,' Quatre continued stoically. 'Watching her trying to hold on, with machines breathing for her–- Later I got a letter. It said that what happened to Iraia would happen to the others.' His hands shifted, folding over each other in his lap. 'It’s taken me this long to get my sisters away from the colonies or safe somewhere the FC can’t reach them. Some of them have families, children. I had to protect them.'

He’d collaborated. A man who’d fought a war at the age of fifteen had been scared enough, or vulnerable enough, to do bad things. There had been other choices, and Quatre of all people knew the range of radical responses to the threats of heavy-handed and unjust governors. Quatre’s story was simple enough; Zechs understood it. He’d collaborated only, never becoming the apologist he’d had to play in public. And rebelled in the smallest ways possible-– taking any opportunity to quietly move his family beyond the reach of his own elected government.

'How would they contact you?' Guadalupe pressed.

'At first it was always letters or calls,' Quatre said. 'After a while they gave up with the pretence. What was the point? I was so deep in their pocket I had already started to put it together.'

'Were you in particular correspondence with any one official?'

'Minister of the Interior Armand Benat.' There was a tiny tremble to Quatre’s voice as he gave up that name. 'He... he liked us to be "friends", he would always say. He would invite me to stay at his own home. He liked to tell me what the future would look like, once the colonies had all the power he thought we ought to have. He’d be very free with state secrets, with updates on negotiations. He’d even do favours for me, personal favours, business favours. And if I ever stepped out of line, he was the one who’d have pictures of my nieces at school, of my sisters at the markets. He’d smile while he told me they could find anyone they wanted to, anywhere they were hiding.'

'Was proof ever offered to you regarding responsibility for your sister’s murder?'

'It was only ever implied.' Quatre reached for his water again, but didn’t drink. 'Armand brought me a recording, about four years ago. He claimed they couldn’t identify the caller, but one of the voices was a man agreeing to make the hit. He knew things about Iraia. Her schedule. What she looked like, that she’d just cut her hair. Armand said it was unfortunate–- that they’d never found him. That he was still out there. It would always be like that.'

'We have established the witness’s belief in the existence of personal threat.' Guadalupe turned to face the judges’ rostrum. 'With your Honours’ permission, we can pause for questions, or move on to testimony regarding specific activities.'

It was the German judge, Petra Reimann, who responded, speaking for the other fourteen. She set the red light on their long table, calling everything to a halt. The translators fell silent, and Guadalupe made an abortive gesture of protest.

'We’ll stop for the day,' Reimann said. 'We thank the witness for his time. We’ll resume tomorrow at ten.'

Zechs didn’t wait for the flow of administrative banalities that followed that announcement. He turned off his audio set and returned it to the bench, as Beito and Noin were both doing. When he stood, he could see Quatre’s face, finally–- upturned to look at the balcony. Though they were quite distant from each other, Zechs knew he didn’t imagine the way no real relief had come to Quatre’s expression. Days split between preparing for his testimony and preparing for his new life in the Witness Protection Programme were draining the young man to his reserves. Every day, Quatre seemed a little paler, a little more haggard. His once bright hair was lank and dull now, falling almost to his jawline and brushing his collar in the back. Zechs did not entirely approve of the hair, though Beito had insisted, quite reasonably, that even minor physical changes could radically alter a person’s appearance. But it didn’t really suit Quatre, who had always been collected and groomed.

'We’ll never be done if the judges constantly end early,' Noin complained. 'Is the afternoon golf game really that important?'

Beito stretched cramped legs. 'Asking the Court to move quickly is like asking Ahab to give up on his whale,' he said. 'But let’s go collect our prisoner.'

Quatre had obediently stayed where he was, only venturing out of the witness box to sit on the steps. He offered a polite, if tired, smile, when the three of them descended the stairs and joined him on the floor.

'Is it just me, or has time stopped?' he joked half-heartedly. 'I could swear they said the pre-trial investigation would move quickly.'

Noin chuckled obligingly as Beito offered Quatre a hand to his feet. Zechs offered Quatre the drink he’d bought during the last break, a bottle of orange juice with a honey stick for some much-needed sugar. Quatre accepted it gratefully, and drank all of it under Zechs’s close scrutiny. He was so pleased with the operation that he almost missed Noin rolling her eyes at him.

'Hush,' he muttered to her.

'I didn’t say anything,' she retorted innocently. 'Daddy.'

Beito broke a small lull with his unrelenting cheer. 'I’m afraid your day isn’t over yet,' he told Quatre. 'We’ll have a wonderful microwave dinner for you back at base, and then we have to turn you over for more lessons. You’ve got Language for two hours, then I have you for another two while we talk about details. Then language recap for fifty minutes, and then we’ll release you to sleep it off.' Beito cushioned the strict schedule with a smile of understanding, though Quatre could only return it wanly.

Quatre made a visible effort to summon some energy. 'I brought my books,' he said. 'Lead the way.'

Noin rubbed Quatre’s shoulder sympathetically. 'We’ll be leaving you to it,' she said. 'We need to catch up on some paperwork.' Quatre, as he’d indicated the night he’d announced to Zechs that he wanted to defect, hadn’t been able to transport any paper evidence, but he’d left plenty on his computer on L4. They had managed to recover most of it through creative hacking and the help of a well-intentioned butler. Zechs and Noin had been reconstructing all of it into useful, jury-friendly grounds for indictment. Benat would certainly go down, and they had two top-level cabinet members in the FC administration and proof of insider trading amongst some two dozen members of the FC Parliament, and they would probably be able to tag close to a hundred minor functionaries; but Une was still hopeful of digging more out of what Quatre had brought them. The collation of clues was an endless task, and once indictments were handed down, they would, hopefully, be flooded with more as the damned hurried to turn on the others to lower their own sentences.

Assuming, always, that the Court did decide to go to trial, and that the Federated Colonies acknowledged the jurisdiction, and turned over its people for sentencing. That would be up to Robert Kresimir, the first-term President of the FC, a book-end of a man with a weak political career and a tendency to bow to outside interests. The kind of leader who preferred to let men like Armand Benat tell him how to vote, if it got him to his afternoon cigar- and brandy- parties any sooner.

The van was waiting for them at the west exit, sheltered from the rain by a small canopy and guarded by Dutchmen who didn’t look half as armed as they probably were. It was a Preventers van, heavily armoured and girded with the latest defence equipment, but from the outside appeared to be nothing more than a white catering vehicle, windowless and boring. Today Beito had arranged for the Department’s Language instructor, Owen Pryce, to come with the van. Quatre seemed less than pleased with the ambush, but he gamely took the back row with Pryce. In only a few minutes, Zechs, in the front behind the driver, could hear them murmuring if he listened over the rumble of the engine.

 _'O le dach chi’n dwad?'_ Owen was saying. And Quatre, roughly and with several uncertain pauses, answering _'Dwi’n dwad... o... o... Amlwch.'_

 _'Da iawn,'_ Pryce congratulated him. 'Very good. Now ask me where I work.'

Zechs exhaled seven hours of stale courthouse air, and determinedly faced the windscreen. 'He’s not progressing very fast,' he said to Noin, consciously keeping his voice low.

'Considering he didn’t even know the language existed last month, I’d say he’s doing fine.' She looked at her partner as she unwrapped a granola in her lap. 'He learnt Sanqian just to talk to you. He can do this.'

'If you say so.' He gazed through the window as the van left the Peace Palace compound and turned down the road into the city proper. Zechs saw only a few brave souls in the streets: the rain was turning heavy, and it was beginning to snow as well. A cold, miserable day, heralding a long and wet winter in the offing. 'Do you think we’re asking too much of him?' he pushed, suddenly determined to pursue the thought. 'We don’t normally send people into protection with such deep cover.'

'You know as well as I do that our friends in the FC won’t believe he’s dead until they’ve shot him down themselves. They know we’ve got him. And they’re going to be looking for him–- a twenty-eight year-old blond man who speaks English and has servants and drivers and wears business suits. The more successful we are at eliminating those factors, the better we can hide him.' Noin glanced behind them, prompting Zechs to do the same. Quatre wore large headphones, now, listening to a tape while Pryce pointed to the workbook they were sharing. Noin lowered her voice to a whisper, and said, 'You like him, don’t you?'

Zechs faced forward again. 'I guess. Why?'

'Zechs. You _like_ him.'

He blinked. 'What?' he answered intelligently.

Noin was patient, her dark eyes amused. 'I’ve known you since we were kids,' she said gently. 'He’s your type. Smart, strong–- hurting.' She laughed a little. 'I guess that’s my type, too, actually. Explains why I spent so many years yearning after you.'

Though they had long since cleared the air about youthful dreams, Zechs nonetheless felt a flush rising in his face when she said that. 'I’m sorry,' he said awkwardly.

'Don’t be,' she shrugged. 'I’m happy with what I’ve got, Zechs. You were pretty irresistible at fourteen, though.' She touched his hair fondly, then absently straightened his collar. 'We were good while we lasted. But we’ve always been better as friends.'

He turned back to the mirror to hide his pleased embarrassment. After a moment, he said, 'So what do you suggest I do about Qu–- him?'

'Unfortunately, there’s nothing you can do. He’s our case.' She kicked her ankles out and wormed down into her seat to relax for the ride. 'But I see the appeal.'

'You realise I never would have noticed if you hadn’t pointed it out?'

She laughed brightly at that. 'What’re friends for?'


	6. Six

'Quatre?'

Quatre wiped his cheek with the back of his hand, the movement almost hidden by the angle of his head. 'I’m ready,' he said. 'Just taking a bit of air.'

Zechs hesitated. 'You still have about five minutes,' he answered. Security maintained a distance of about twenty feet, discreetly out of earshot as long as their voices were low. 'May I join you?'

'Of course.' Quatre’s eyes were red, but expressionlessly polite. Zechs eased down onto the bench beside him, rubbing his palms over his trousers. 'It’s a beautiful day,' Quatre added. 'All that rain earlier this week, and it’s so beautiful today.'

'It is.' The sunlight streaming through the windows was warm on his skin, and the gardens behind the Court had the saturated green of a good watering. There was even a rainbow in the distance. 'May I ask... You seem distressed.'

Quatre’s eyelashes quivered. They caught the sunlight, too, like golden lace. Zechs forced himself to turn his gaze back to the window.

'It’s my nephew’s birthday,' Quatre said. 'He’s turning fifteen. He’s a young man today.'

The boy at the funeral? 'I’m sorry,' Zechs replied, unconsciously softening his tone. 'What’s his name?'

'Søren.' In the periphery of his vision, Zechs saw Quatre clasp his hands; his thumbs pressed tightly together. 'He starts study at the Paris Conservatory this year. He’s a very gifted pianist. I would have liked to be there for him.'

'You took the opportunity that presented itself,' Zechs reminded him gently. 'The summit was the best chance you were going to have. You might have been stuck there for years more, if you hadn’t made contact with us when you did.'

'I know.' Quatre smiled at him, and Zechs returned it, even though it faded quickly. 'They tell me this is the part that never goes away. The part that washes out more candidates for the Programme. They tell me I’ll never stop missing my family.'

'They’re right.' Zechs clasped his hands, as well, to keep them still in his lap. 'This may not be forever.'

'We both know that’s a false hope.' Quatre caught his eyes, and didn’t surrender them. 'There’s not going to be another war. There’s not going to be a massive coup, a sudden overthrow of the colonial government. I probably won’t be safe even if everyone I’ve ever personally offended goes to prison for the rest of their lives.'

He didn’t know what to say to that, what comfort there was to be offered that wasn’t, as Quatre pointed out, ultimately hollow. At last, all he could say was, 'I don’t believe that you regret it, all the same.'

That ghost of a smile returned. 'Say rather that I’m regretting its necessity.'

Zechs examined his own knuckles. 'You should take a break tonight. Some time for yourself. I’ll tell Beito to cancel the lessons.'

Quatre made a little show of checking his wristwatch, and stood, patting his clothing into place. 'I’m not sure I want to be all that alone with my thoughts,' he deferred. 'I’m not supposed to break my routine, at any rate.'

'One night is good for you.' Zechs rose as well, as one of the court officers appeared in the doorway to summon them back inside. 'I could join you. You could tell me more about your nephew.' Where the invitation had come from, Zechs didn’t know. Quatre certainly seemed surprised by it, and Zechs cast about for a way to retract it without making a greater fool of himself. 'Or, um, some books, or a video–-'

'Supper,' Quatre interrupted him. His eyes wavered before settling steadily on Zechs. 'Would be welcome.'

Zechs swallowed, suddenly dry-mouthed. 'I think you’re needed inside.'

Quatre very carefully avoided touching him as he circled Zechs. They did not walk together as they returned to the courtroom.

 

**

 

'At what point did you feel that the administration, and the individuals particularly named in your previous witness, were beginning to consider war as an alternative to on-going negotiation with the Earth-Sphere?' Guadalupe prompted.

'Two years ago,' Quatre answered. 'I can’t specify a date. When it was raised to me, I felt that it had already been discussed at length.'

'Please describe that conversation.'

It was the ninth day of Quatre’s testimony. Guadalupe had done her best to keep a thematic logic to her questions, wringing exhaustive detail from every subject before shifting carefully sideways to the next related topic. The Japanese judge seemed to have decided he didn’t like Quatre; he listened with an expression of lingering distaste. But Quatre was restrained enough to never glance to the judges’ podium. He sat with his hands folded over his lap, his attention secure on the lawyer deposing him, the picture of disciplined composition. He would, Zechs rather thought, have done well in the military. If he hadn’t been a colonial; if he hadn’t been a Gundam Pilot, instead.

'Armand Benat was upset,' Quatre responded. 'Frequently upset, those days. I was in his home, we were having dinner. He spoke at some length about how President Mimoto was being deliberately unreasonable on trade tariffs, trying to force the FC to accept a deficit just to keep exports from Earth strong during a regression. Combined with an aggressive foreign policy, it was like Mimoto was trying to provoke a conflict.'

'The Minister used the word "conflict"?'

'Yes.' Quatre dropped his eyes to his hands, but continued without pause. 'I answered him that our economy was strong enough and young enough to survive a rough patch. Armand disagreed. Mimoto was only a first-term President, and his party was very popular. It seemed likely that his administration would have a second term, which turned out to be a correct prediction. Armand was certain that Mimoto would not renew the mutual disarmament treaty of 199, and intended the Colonies to be so weakened that we wouldn’t be able to turn our industry around in time to properly arm ourselves. Armand has always feared being dependent on manufacturing imports. It was an important factor in securing myself and Winner Enterprises as an ally.'

'Did he or another individual ever directly or indirectly express a desire to go to war with Earth?'

'Armand was part of the Resistance in the 190s,' Quatre said. 'He told me he was bringing in old friends to available government positions. I took that to mean other members of paramilitary groups. Ambassador Ramon Lazar was a White Fang cell leader on L1. Armand convinced the President to appoint him. A year ago he forced the Minister of Security to resign so he could replace her with Eve Vardalos, who started the Colonies First Party in 203 on a no-immigration platform.'

'To what end?'

'Since entering office each of them have been encouraging a hostile stance with Mimoto and now President Hemi, both in private and in public, with increasing support from the people.'

'And what, if any, is your involvement in this strategy?'

'Arms manufacturing,' Quatre answered readily. 'Since this time last year, I’ve been fulfilling a secret no-bid government contract to produce military technology.'

'Specifically?'

'Mobile suits.'

'Under duress?'

Quatre gazed down at his hands, and did not reply immediately. At last, he shrugged. 'Do I believe there would have been retaliation if I had refused? Yes. But I also believe that there’s a huge danger in presuming that there’s an imminent threat from Earth. It’s very difficult to describe what it’s like, growing up with the absolute certainty that you have to protect your sovereignty at all costs. We’re a people who know all too well how fragile our environment is, and we remember exactly how easy it was for the Alliance and OZ to take away our right to so much as protest.'

'Meaning?'

Quatre’s head rose. He did look, now, at the judges, meeting three pairs of eyes in turn. 'Let me describe the last six months in the Federated Colonies,' he said. 'There are thirty-two Senators who support closing the borders permanently. Forty-eight who voted to refuse visas to all non-commercial travel to the Colonies. Fifty-six who drafted a bill giving the President special powers to monitor communications between the Colonies and Earth without the lawful procedure outlined in our Constitution. And no less than two hundred sixteen government officials have used the words ‘intensive fortification’, ‘irreconcilable factions’, ‘vigorous self-defense’, ‘hostile action’, ‘armed conflict’, and ‘military confrontation’. And anyone who suggests that attitude is alarmist and provocative is _unpatriotic._ ' His mouth was a thin, grim line. 'That is the direct responsibility of a government whose agenda is the pursuit of war. They have created an atmosphere of fear. They have succeeded in suppressing protest and dissent, whether by private threats or by publicly discrediting individuals capable of providing alternate leadership. That’s the name of my duress. I only wish I’d been brave enough to draw the line when I could still have stopped it from getting this bad.'

 

**

 

'Come in,' Quatre said.

Zechs licked the inside edge of his teeth. 'If the invitation still stands...'

'Come in,' Quatre repeated, and stood aside. Feeling abruptly graceless, Zechs squeezed past him and into the small foyer of Quatre’s rooms. He had been inside several times, every morning for almost two months actually, but now he felt like an out-of-place giant, taking up too much space as Quatre stepped around him and went into the kitchen.

'Do you want a drink?' Quatre asked him. 'Whoever does the shopping brings back things like that. I have wine and scotch. It’s not great, but it’s decent.' He trailed off, turning back to look at Zechs.

He’s nervous, Zechs realised, and was shocked. And a little intrigued. He ventured closer to the kitchenette, approaching the three stools that lined the shoddy bar. 'Wine would be nice,' he decided, bracing his hands against the seat of the stool. With an effort, he kept his tone light. 'I hope I’m not too early. I intended to give you some time to relax.'

'I don’t mean to be rude or cynical, but I think we both know I won’t be able to relax for a long time.' Quatre took two glasses from the cabinet over the sink, and poured a white wine for them both. 'I practised the Welsh,' he added. 'Beito thinks I don’t have to be fluent. It’s the accent that’s important, the thought process. Fitting in.'

'I think he means you don’t have to run yourself to the ground,' Zechs offered.

'What else am I to do with my time?' Quatre answered drily. 'I’m nearly finished baring my soul to the panel. If there is a trial, it won’t be for months; maybe years. Beito wants to move me before November.' He lifted his glass in a half-hearted toast, and sipped. Zechs returned the gesture before taking his own drink. He watched as Quatre balanced the glass between both hands, then set it down determinedly. 'I want to thank you,' the younger man said seriously. 'For how kind you’ve been. We never knew each other very well, but you’ve been the closest thing I’ve had to a friend in–- a long time. And I’m terrified that if I go on any further with this I’ll embarrass us both so much you’ll be forced to avoid me in the halls.' A faint flush had risen on his face, and he grabbed the wine again, trying vainly to hide behind the glass as he drank rather more deeply than before. Zechs bought himself a moment by staring into the depths of the pale liquid of his own glass.

'I’m glad to be able to offer my friendship,' he answered at last. 'And if you ever need a friend to talk to, I... like to think that I would try to give anything you needed.' The hammer of his pulse betrayed him, but he kept his voice steady through sheer force of will.

Quatre froze momentarily. Zechs was both relieved and disappointed when Quatre simply nodded, and turned away to his pantry.

'I can cook only four things,' he announced to the door as he opened it. He removed milk and two eggs from the fridge, setting them carefully on the counter. 'Heero taught me lemon curry. Wufei taught me sweet and sour prawns. Duo taught me crepes, because, and I quote, anything you can eat with jam must come from God’s own kitchen. And Trowa taught me stone soup.'

Zechs drank half his wine in unwise gulps. 'Stone soup?' he repeated.

Quatre closed the pantry with flour in his hands. 'Stone soup. You know–- sort of, whatever you have, in a pot. He said it was what he always ate when he was a mercenary, as a child. You never go hungry with stone soup.'

'All the same, I think I’d rather eat crepes.'

That got him a tense smile. 'So would I. But that’s because I like jam.'

He watched Quatre shake flour into the bowl, not bothering with a measuring cup. Quatre cracked his eggs one-handed and dropped the runny insides into the bowl, then began to mix with the wooden fork. Zechs said, 'What happened to them? The other pilots.'

Quatre glanced up. 'Why ask me?'

Again he was surprised. Though Preventers had plumbed every inch of Quatre’s involvement with the FC, there was a great deal that had gone untouched. 'I assumed you’d know,' he admitted.

'No.' Quatre’s face was oddly still as he stirred briskly, scraping against the sides of the bowl. 'I got a call from Duo about nine years ago. He told me he was going away for a while. That was the last I heard from any of them.'

'I got the impression you all were very close.'

Quatre smiled again, a little stretching of his mouth that was neither amused nor happy. 'I can count on one hand the number of times all of us stood in the same room. Usually to piss at each other for messing up.' He reached for the milk, mixing as he slowly poured. 'That’s not to say we weren’t close in our own way. Duo was a good friend. And Heero and I stayed in Sanq together. I can’t say I knew Wufei very well, not until after the wars. Probably not really then. Though I wasn’t surprised when he quit the Preventers.'

'Une was. He always seemed dedicated.'

'He hated being "the Gundam pilot,"' Quatre said softly to the dough. 'He didn’t want to be famous. He didn’t want to be a hero or a villain every time the news dug up something about the wars.'

Zechs picked at the edge of the flour bag. 'You didn’t mention the other one. Barton.'

The fork slipped and fell into the bowl. Quatre grabbed it out and brought it to the sink to wash. Zechs stared at him, suddenly aware he’d innocently put his foot into something. Tentatively, he said, 'I’m sorry if the question was inappropriate.'

'No.' Quatre managed another smile, this one strained. 'I’m the sorry one. I usually am,' he added in a mutter. He left the fork on the counter, and turned on the front burner on the stove, setting one of the copper-bottom pans on it and dropping a chunk of butter in. 'I thought I was close to Trowa. But apparently I wasn’t. I don’t know what happened to him.'

There was plenty of sub-text in that. Zechs did the only thing he could, and deliberately let it pass undisturbed. Instead, he said, 'It’s all right.'

Quatre gestured, and Zechs rose from his stool to bring the dough bowl to the other man. He poured out the first crepe, and Zechs caught a watery drop that clung to the side of the bowl. It didn’t taste like much when he stuck his finger in his mouth.

'I’m the one who’s left,' Quatre said. 'Of the pilots, I mean. I... miss them. I miss the confidence they gave me. The validation. It’s been a very long time since I could be proud of anything I’ve done.'

'It’s not your fault, Quatre.'

'Isn’t it?' Quatre plated the crepe smoothly, and poured another. 'My father chose to die rather than let OZ control our resource satellite.' His hands pressed flat on the counter. 'As much as he hated my decision to pilot a Gundam, he would be ashamed to know his own son is a collaborator.'

Zechs covered Quatre’s hand with his own. 'You saved your family. Maybe what your father did was brave, and noble, but–- the bottom line is that you chose your family. I’m not sure there is shame in that.'

Quatre looked at their hands. His lips were parted. The angle of his face was soft, downcast like that. 'Do you actually believe that?' he demanded softly. 'Don’t try to comfort me, Zechs.'

'I’m on your side.'

'No, you’re not. You’re trying to make me feel better for reasons I haven’t entirely deduced yet, and you’re–- touching me–-' Quatre pulled away sharply. 'I’m sorry. This was a bad idea. I think you should go.'

Several things started and stopped before quite becoming thoughts. Outrage, and incredulity, and a hefty amount of confusion. 'Is it so difficult to believe that I might want to touch you?' he asked finally.

Quatre shook his head. 'I don’t even want to touch myself.'

'I’m not–-' Zechs pressed his lips together, and turned off the stove. 'I’m not smart enough to make this right with the perfect words,' he said. 'I wish I was. Maybe I should go.'

He had his hand on the doorknob when Quatre said, 'Don’t.'


	7. Seven

They fetched up against the counter. Quatre’s hair was coarse and dry, thick; he fit perfectly into Zechs. Everything was quiet except for the sound their lips made together, small wet noises, shivering exhales.

“I wasn’t sure you wanted this,” Zechs said. He traveled the planes of Quatre’s face with his mouth, kissing slowly over Quatre’s closed eyes, the bridge of his nose.

“Neither was I.” Quatre brought their mouths together again, his tongue tracing patterns over Zechs’.

Urgency slowly replaced the mutual exploration. It had been a long time since Zechs had done anything like this. He felt a burn in his groin, a restless clumsiness as he fit his hands to skin wherever he could find it. Quatre’s hands were uncertain, too, fumbling to find a resting spot on Zechs’s hips. Then, inevitably, they slid down to Zechs’ front. Quatre massaged him lightly through his trousers. Zechs inhaled sharply, and bit into the tender flesh of Quatre’s neck, and licked it smooth.

Quatre fought Zechs’ belt buckle, and then his zip, until only a thin layer of cotton underpants separated them. He measured Zechs’ hardness with a strong squeeze. His breath came in small gasps.

Zechs braced himself on the counter. “Are you sure?”

“Not the slightest,” Quatre answered shakily. He hesitated skittishly. Then he knelt on the tiles.

Zechs caught his arms and pulled him upright. “Your bed,” he whispered.

“I...”

Awareness returned in a rush. “Don’t know,” he finished. He released Quatre’s wrists, and zipped himself as gracefully as he could manage. “I understand.”

Quatre was flushed, bright spots high in his cheeks matching the pink beneath his collar. “I botched this. I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to apologise for. I wasn’t particularly– smooth.”

“More than you might think,” Quatre responded. “Make up your mind, right? I’m the one that asked you to stay.”

Zechs shook his head. “Only if you’re comfortable. I’m not here to force anything on–“

“I– shit.” Quatre dove toward the stove. Zechs registered the smell of burning as Quatre shoved the pan and blackened crepe toward the sink. Quatre swore again when he caught the burner with the edge of his hand. Zechs flipped on the faucet and held Quatre’s fingers under it, but two knuckles were already red and swelling.

“Should we laugh or swear never to speak of this?” he said finally. It seemed absurd to press his luck, when it appeared they might both escape without further embarrassment. His belt flapped at his hips, and he trapped it with his palm.

Amazingly, Quatre laughed. He curled his fingers about Zechs’, under the water. “It almost feels good to... to mess up on something little. Not– not little, but–“

“I know.” Zechs smiled more easily. “It seems I’ve managed to destroy dinner as well as the date.”

“Dinner, probably.” Quatre faced him. His fingers plucked softly at Zechs’ belt. “The pressure’s off,” he said. “Let’s just... see where it goes.”

Feeling like a heel, Zechs gently disengaged. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. “But I think it might be time for me to go. This went a lot further than I anticipated.”

The rejection obviously stung. Quatre licked his lips. “Of course,” he agreed, a beat late. “Yes, you’re right. Well, thank you. For the, uh, attempt.”

Quatre even walked him to the door, greater courtesy than he deserved. Zechs checked his buckle to be sure he was presentable, and let himself into the hall. He nearly made his good-byes, when he remembered.

“Your nephew,” he said. “His birthday.”

Quatre rubbed his face. “Don’t,” he answered. “Good night.”

 

**

 

“I want to move him now,” Beito said.

Noin tossed the transcripts to the table. “No objection here,” she shrugged. “Sal?”

“I’m concerned that he hasn’t completed the programme preparation.” Sally gestured, and Beito passed her the transcripts. “We’re positive they know he’s not really dead?”

“I’ve heard the tape,” Beito assured her. “They were barely holding onto any kind of euphemisms. They know, and they know we have him. And as soon as we announce an official investigation, they’ll have all the confirmation they need.”

“Psychologically, Quatre isn’t ready,” Sally protested. “If it were a normal case he would have total isolation, time to settle into his new identity. We’ve been carting him off to testify every day for weeks. If anything, all we’ve done is cage him more deeply in being Quatre Winner, Colonial defector.”

“And if it were a normal case, he would have been moved immediately, and brought back for testimony whenever we had a case ready for trial,” Beito retorted. “Since he was our main witness, practically our only witness, we didn’t have the luxury of going at this normally.”

“Zechs,” Noin said. “What do you think?”

Zechs looked up from contemplating the window. “What?”

Noin’s eyebrows climbed at his inattention. “I asked what’s your opinion on moving Quatre early.” Sally helpfully offered the transcript. To buy himself time, Zechs accepted it, and stared down at the highlighted paragraphs.

It was Lazar and Minister Benat again. Lazar was clearly in a panic; the expressionless transcript captured the echo of his frenzy. Benat soothed him repeatedly with promises.

“Do they have an informant?” Zechs asked. “Whatever they may have suspected, this looks like they got a heads-up from the inside.”

“We’re looking into it,” Beito said. “Legally there’s only so much surveillance we’re allowed. Anyway, since the question was asked, what do you think?”

“Why does that matter?” Zechs put the transcript aside. “My opinion is just that– an opinion.”

“You’re closest to Quatre,” Noin said. “You’re the only one he really talks to.”

Not anymore. Three days had passed since Zechs had, he now thought unwisely, terminated the budding sexual possibilities between himself and the other man. Quatre had been courteous, restrained, and absolutely impersonal in their interaction since. The worst of it was that Zechs knew it wasn’t an intentional punishment. Quatre probably thought he was doing what Zechs wanted, or needed, and Quatre was quite probably correct. Unfortunately, that cut Quatre off from the one confidant he’d had.

“I don’t think he’s ready,” Zechs finally answered. “But if you have to do it, you have to do it. He knows that.”

Sally grudgingly accepted his logic. “Here’s a better question,” she said. “Are we ready to move him?”

“The location’s prepped,” Beito told them. “His documentation is ready. It may not be the neatest we’ve ever done it, but we can go as early as tomorrow.”

“I think Guadalupe wants him for a few more days at least. If she knows she’s got a deadline, she’ll wrap it up. There’s not much else he can give us through personal testimony, at this point.”

“Then let’s do this,” Beito decided. “We’ll say two days, with an optional third. My people get him every minute he’s not physically in front of the judges. Sally, I’d appreciate a clean bill of health.”

“I’ll interface with Une,” Noin volunteered. “Make sure there’s no loose ends on our side.”

“I know you were supposed to be the agent on point for the transition,” Beito said seriously to Zechs. “But this phone call has me worried. It might be better to bring in someone new, someone less recognisable.”

“He can cover his hair,” Sally disagreed. “I want Quatre to have a familiar face. A friend. Until we have actual evidence that someone here is passing information to the colonials, there’s no reason to assume they know Zechs is an agent.”

“My first concern is Quatre’s physical safety.”

“With Zechs on point, we’ve got both issues covered,” Sally said firmly.

Beito capitulated with raised hands. “All right. Meeting adjourned, then.”

Noin lingered after Sally and Beito had left the conference. “You feeling okay?” she asked Zechs. “You’ve seemed a little depressed.”

“Not getting enough sleep,” Zechs excused himself. He rose from the table, gathering his notes. “I must have a lot on my mind.”

Noin grinned a little. “A certain blond bombshell haunting your dreams?”

He blushed, and cursed himself for giving her such an easy win while she chortled. “I wouldn’t call him a bombshell,” was the best he managed as a retort.

“Then you’re not paying attention,” she teased. “Because those big green eyes of his are gorgeous.” She punched him lightly on the shoulder. “You want some company? We can give him the news together.”

He hadn’t even thought that far ahead. His heart felt heavy at the prospect. He knew it wouldn’t be a welcome burden. “No,” he decided. “I’ll do it.”

 

**

 

Quatre greeted him at the door with a polite smile. “Please come in,” he invited.

Zechs did, shutting the door after himself. From the look of things, Quatre was spread out over the couch, his language workbooks open, and three newspapers at varying sections. “Any interesting news?” he asked lamely.

“I’m pregnant,” Quatre said. “You’re the father.”

“I thought you might be glowing a bit.” The smile that earned him was a smidge more genuine. Zechs hated to remove it, but steeled himself to do just that. “I need to talk to you.”

“We’re talking.” Quatre cleared the couch, and sat. Zechs joined him. Quatre scrutinised him intently, and looked away with a sigh. “It’s time, isn’t it?”

“You’re psychic now?” Zechs exhaled heavily himself. “Word has leaked that you’re alive. The sooner you disappear, the safer you’ll be.”

“I know.” Quatre rubbed his knees, then gestured vaguely. “At least packing will be easy.”

“I’ll be with you.”

“When?”

“Two days. Soft schedule.”

“That soon.” Quatre gazed sightlessly at the wall. “All right,” he said eventually. “I’m ready.”


	8. Eight

Bilingual signs announced their entrance into the county of Flintshire, and directed them toward Wrexham. Zechs checked their map, and rubbed his eyes. The blast of the heater made him feel dried-out. Quatre gazed out his window at the dull rain battering the car. He had dozed a little while Zechs drove, but sat awake, if dull-eyed, now, a styrofoam cup of tea from the petrol station forgotten in his hand.

It was Quatre who broke the silence they’d sat in since the plane had landed. “We’re almost there.”

Zechs dug for the address Beito had handed him. Now he passed it to Quatre. Their fingers brushed, and Quatre moved his carefully away.

Beito had dyed Quatre’s hair, the day before they left. It was a deep brown, just a shade away from a true black. The effect on Quatre was startling. It didn’t look entirely natural, but Zechs supposed that might be his own negative reaction. Noin had approved, and so had Sally and even Une. Noin had remarked, prompting a blush from Quatre, that it made him even more handsome. Beito had only been concerned with disguising Quatre’s very famous visage, and Zechs had to admit that without the golden hair, he might well have overlooked this slumped young man who huddled in a flannel shirt and plain wool coat.

Wrexham was a large enough city, if only a fraction the size of London. But as soon as they left Wrexham’s modern outer circle and broad, car-packed highway, the countryside changed dramatically. The road to Hope narrowed to two slender lanes, empty of all traffic. A dirty slush crowded the kerbs, sending the tyres squealing on the slippery ruts. It was not a lovely country. Perhaps it would be, come spring, when the hills turned green and the stormy grey skies abated. Now, it was only a deadened brown, the churned and marshy snow testifying to a lingering freeze. Sagging houses of slate and plaster huddled together as if they felt the cold, too.

“Turn there,” Quatre instructed. He pointed to a battered, hand-painted sign on the right, announcing _Ty Llwyd_. Zechs turned the car, and had to tighten his grip on the wheel when, almost immediately, they left the relatively level street for a dirt and gravel path. Their small jeep jittered and bounced along as they slogged uphill. They were leaving civilisation behind. A crumbling wall of stacked stones hemmed them in to a single lane on the left, and on the right, a head-high hedge of bramble and bare branches. Then suddenly the nose of the car dipped down, and they were in a sort of valley, a wide depression, at the centre of which squatted a building as brown as the mud around it.

Quatre’s silence now was ominously tense. The house did not improve from close scrutiny. Two of the front-facing windows were broken, and a patch of roof tiles were missing, leaving only a patch of discoloured felt behind. Zechs parked the car in a puddle, startling a goat wandering through the yard. It bleated angrily at them, and clambered away.

“Beito vetted the place,” Zechs said. It was a feeble defence. He could see as easily as Quatre that this place was not habitable. He turned off the engine. “Let’s... let’s just see what it’s like inside.”

They had to pick their way to the front stoop. The rain had not let up, and there was no cover while Zechs struggled with the key Beito had provided. The wooden door had warped, and he had to set his shoulder to it. The smell of must and mould greeted them, and a nearly impenetrable darkness, though it was only mid-morning.

“Probably there’s curtains,” Zechs said. “You go left, I’ll go right?”

“Fine,” Quatre agreed briefly. He went, without another word. Zechs exhaled softly, and went on his task, as well.

He felt his way along the wall toward a sliver of pale light. His skin crawled a little when he grasped a handful of damp drapes, and pulled them open. It helped a little, illuminating large lumps of sheet-draped furniture, and a swath of dusty spiderweb above his head. There was another window a few feet away, one of the broken ones, judging by the sheen of water collecting on the floorboards. Zechs left those curtains closed. An incomplete wall cut the kitchen off from the den, and he opened a pair of windows in there before finding a closet full of old coats– the source of the mould smell– and a stairwell to the first floor. Small creaking footsteps told him Quatre had already climbed it. “Quatre?” he called, and climbed after him.

There were two bedrooms, and a bath. The bath was a black, chilly hole, the room on the left of the stairs large but empty. The room on the right was furnished. Quatre stood in front of a canopied bed. Zechs joined him.

“It needs a little work,” he admitted cautiously.

“How am I supposed to live here?” Quatre demanded. He was holding a rotting tile. He flung it to the floor. “I don’t know anything about– about home repair! I can’t fix plumbing or lay floorboards or whatever the hell this dump needs.”

“You knew we weren’t putting you up in a mansion.”

“Did I ask for that? I just thought I’d get to live somewhere that wasn’t falling down about my head--” His voice broke on the last word, and he turned swiftly away. Zechs stared at him, awkwardly aware of just how close Quatre was to falling down himself.

“I’ll help you get started,” he offered eventually. “Once it’s cleaned up a little it won’t look so bad. And it will be a good opportunity for you to go out into the community. That’s an important part of integration.”

Quatre’s shoulders were horribly taut with tension. “Yes,” he told the wall. “You’re right. Of course.”

The storm seemed to have passed. Or missed, to go into waiting. Zechs sighed. “Let’s start cleaning up,” he said. “Why don’t you start here in the bedroom. We’ll get the essentials done today.”

 

**

Some searching revealed a washer and dryer in the barn behind the house. The goat had taken shelter there, in what had evidently become a comfortable nest. It glared suspiciously, but left Zechs alone as he checked that the machines worked. He made a pile of the mouldy coats from the house and the dust sheets that had covered all the furniture, hoping the animal could be trusted not to chew them before they bought washing liquids.

The barn yielded up a toolbox, as well, though the tools were rusted and old. Zechs made use of a pair of wellingtons he found to slosh to the front of the house. He nailed boards over the broken windows, the smallest measure he could take until Quatre repaired them. Then he hauled in most of the luggage they’d brought. He was thoroughly wet despite a hood and a thick scarf by the time he’d finished. He stripped off his soaked outer things and shivered in the cold house. He made a second trip to check the electricity, and finally found a small space heater sitting in the fireplace in the kitchen. It didn’t work when he plugged it in.

Quatre was in the bath when he went looking, standing on a footstool while he struggled with the showerhead. “The water’s not working,” he informed Zechs.

“It is downstairs.” There was a half-bath there, at least, and Zechs had noticed a small sink in each bedroom. Zechs was tall enough to reach the showerhead without aid, and he held the pipe steady as Quatre worked on it, his fingers scrabbling in caked lime and rust. Quatre’s face was locked into a frown, and though Zechs tried to catch his eyes, he refused to look.

“We’ve done the best we can without supplies,” he said. “Let’s head into town. See if there’s a store.”

There was, though it wasn’t much of one. Sandwiched in a row of buildings on the grandly named ‘High Street’, the convenience was the only brightly painted shopfront in sight, one window advertising off-licence liquor and the other filled with a display of pasties and pies. Zechs parked across the road from it.

“Ready?” he asked Quatre.

Quatre unbuckled his safety belt. “I’m fine.”

“Remember, you should do the talking. Introduce yourself, get some information–“

“I know what to do.”

The shop was deserted, but for a teenager behind the counter reading a magazine. Quatre did not speak to him, and Zechs didn’t push him to. Instead, he followed Quatre with a hand basket, and together they gathered a large pile of cleaning supplies, a few new tools to supplement the ones Zechs had found, and, on Zechs’ insistence, enough bottled water to last at least a few days. There were also a few shelves of basic foods, and Zechs collected two loaves of bread, a litre of milk, and several instant meals of noodles and rice. There hadn’t been a refrigerator in the house, and the small freezer would need twenty-four hours to cool enough, so he reluctantly left behind anything more substantial that might have made a better meal. When they had as much as they could carry, they returned to the counter. The teenager had been joined by an older man who watched them with a little raised eyebrow.

“Bit much for just passing through town, boys,” he observed, and gestured for the boy to start ringing up their purchases.

Zechs glanced at Quatre, wondering if he was going to have to cover for them after all. But Quatre righted the small broom they’d picked, and answered, his accent as flawless as the real thing, “Not passing through, sir. I’m the new owner of Ty Llwyd.”

That earned them surprise and then a genuine smile. “Are you then? Congratulations.” The man wiped his palms quickly, then offered a hand. “Meirion Jones. This is my nephew Huw.”

“Gwyn Richards,” Quatre introduced himself. He shook hands first with Meirion, then the boy. “This is my friend Daniel. He’s helping me move in.”

“In fine weather, too.” Meirion brushed Huw aside and began to ring the items himself. “In quite a lot of disrepair, old Llwyd. You’ll need more than this.”

“No doubt,” Quatre said.

“I can order in from Wrexham for you, or Chester. Get me a list tomorrow, and I’ll make a few calls.” Meirion laid a finger along his nose slyly. “Got a few good contacts still.”

Quatre seemed oddly flustered by the gesture of kindness. He hesitated, then ducked his head. His dark hair swung over his cheeks. “Thank you,” he mumbled. “Diolch yn fawr.”

“I didn’t know the old place had sold,” Meirion went on. Zechs noticed a few extra keystrokes as he charged the food, and the price facing them on the LED screen discounted. “Did you know the owners?”

“My grandparents.” Quatre fumbled with his wallet, and produced the charge card he’d been given with its modest bank account.

“You’d be Stel’s son, then?” Meirion produced a credit machine and inserted the card. “I still remember little Stel. I went to school with her. How is she?”

“She passed,” Quatre said. “Her and my father. Car accident, in France.”

It happened to be true. Stel and James Richards had been dead for twenty years, long enough to be nothing more than simple childhood memories, but they provided instant credentials. A long-lost relative gathered far less attention than a stranger in a small town, Beito had said, and Meirion’s sympathetic grimace and murmur of condolence indicated both unquestioning acceptance of Quatre’s story, and of Quatre himself. Zechs relaxed a little, seeing that. It was shaping up to be a very successful encounter.

“You have a car?” Meirion asked them then. “Put these in, and come up the road with me. The Arms is open now. Let me stand you both to a cup of tea, and you can meet Andrew and Nia. They’ll be your closest neighbours, also– they’re in the old farm out on Ffordd Gorath.”

Quatre looked like he might protest, so Zechs stepped in to accept the invitation. “That would be wonderful,” he said warmly, and gathered up their bags. “If you’re sure it’s not too much trouble.”

“No trouble, no trouble.” Meirion put their receipt in with the food, and nothing would do but that he helped them carry their supplies to the car, Huw staying behind to mind the counter. The rain had finally poured itself out, and there was only a light drizzle, still cold and miserable. “Snow again soon,” Meirion told them wisely, as he directed them up the street and further into town. “It’s a long winter up here.”

“How long?” Quatre asked. There was more than just polite conversation at work in his question. It hadn’t escaped Zechs that Quatre had looked uncomfortable with the chill since they’d landed in London.

“Oh, til April, at least,” was the philosophical reply. “But summer is a sight to see, if you can survive the rest.” The Arms was a squat little free-standing structure, white-washed brick and black-stained oak beams as thick as Zechs himself. Both Meirion and Zechs had to duck under the lintel. Quatre was short enough to escape the indignity. He did not, as Zechs did, look about with curiosity. The pub was small, the bar a long affair of polished oak with brightly shined brass rails and colourful beer pumps. Small booths that had probably been constructed hundreds of years before any of them had been born lined the wall, and small tables with red-cushioned stools filled the floor space.

“Andrew!” Meirion called. “Come out and meet your newest customers.”

The man who emerged from a little door behind the bar was, like Meirion, a dark-skinned, dark-haired Welshman. As Meirion, apparently a talkative man, launched into the story of their arrival, Zechs stepped subtly back to allow Quatre the limelight. He looked, Zechs was surprised to note, rather a lot like he belonged. It appeared Beito had known what he was doing.

Hands were shaken all around, and tea was poured. They had no sooner sat down at the bar than a round-cheeked woman in a grease-spattered apron came out of the kitchen, followed by a lanky young man carting cases of wine bottles. The introductions began again. The woman was Nia, and the young man, Rhis, was their cousin. Zechs noticed that Rhis’ eyes lingered on Quatre after they pressed palms, and tried not to suffer the pang that provoked. It would be a good thing if Quatre did find a companion so easily. He was an attractive man, after all, and perhaps Rhis saw that air of loneliness as mystery, and opportunity.

“Daniel,” Andrew asked him, when the teapot had made a second round. “How long will you be staying in town?”

“Just a few days,” Zechs answered. “Only until Gwyn doesn’t need my help any more.”

Quatre sipped from his cup, and didn’t add anything more.


	9. Nine

“Pastry again?” Zechs said, surprised.

Noin flushed, a plump chocolate savoyard dangling from her fingers. “Réme sent them.”

“For all of us?”

“Oh,” Noin said, reluctantly. “Uh, yes. Sure.”

Zechs surveyed the very large basket of baked sweets with growing surprise. It held a thorough selection of tarts and pastries– perfectly formed baba au rhums, sugar-crusted cream horns, delicate mint delices no larger than the circle of his thumb and forefinger– choux chantilly pastries dusted with cinnamon and bursting with whipped cream, almond-scattered petite kirsch buchette, truly gorgeous petite napoleans– “Is that a Blueberry Anglaise?” he said.

Noin’s hand shot out and prevented his innocent attempt to pick up the fruited parfait. “Maybe,” she said, eyeing him suspiciously. “That’s definitely for me.”

Zechs selected a plain but elegant brioche. “I didn’t want it anyway,” he teased, dropping into his accustomed chair. He tore it in two and popped the pan-end into his mouth. “You’ll get fat,” he added around the mouthful.

Noin went red again. “Hey now.”

“Do I smell pastry?” Relena entred the breakfast room in her slippers and dressing gown, though her hair was already immaculately groomed. Zechs noted there were no protests when his sister went pawing through the basket. “Did Réme send these?” she asked Noin.

Noin was suddenly engrossed by her Blueberry Anglaise, staring down at the dessert spoon stirring its depths. “Maybe,” she said again.

Relena tucked herself into one of the cushioned chairs, a chocolate eclair smearing her fingers. “Lucy has an admirer,” she slyly informed Zechs. “I think the feeling may be mutual. Was there a love note this time?”

“A love note?” Zechs repeated. “I was gone for two weeks. When did this happen?”

“We’re moving on,” Noin interrupted hastily. “Zechs, how did Quatre do with the transfer?”

“Yes,” Relena agreed, sitting at attention. “Did he settle in well?”

“That’s a question with two answers.” A knock sent them all into silence; it was a maid, bringing a tray of fresh coffee. When they were alone again, Zechs poured cups for the girls, rising to serve them. “He did everything he was supposed to; no-one questioned his story even the slightest. But the house Beito found for him... it could be a better situation. It’s not in good repair. I think it rather shocked him. I know it shocked me.”

Noin was frowning. “It was that bad? Why would Beito–“

“A question I intend to ask.”

“Poor Quatre.” Relena seemed downcast by the news. “Will he be all right?”

The day before he’d left they’d finished patching the roof. The young man from the pub, Rhis, had helped them. Quatre had been quiet throughout, not– shy– standoffish, almost, nearly unwelcoming, but Zechs had seen the subtle looks they exchanged. Theirs was a world where every glance had to speak volumes in silence, when they couldn’t outwardly and openly express interest in another man. Zechs knew. But even if Rhis were not being the more obvious in his interest, Zechs would still have wondered at Quatre’s reaction to that mute invitation. Contrasted to the way Quatre had behaved with him, he didn’t know what to make of it, except to hope that Quatre could so easily– replace him.

The women were gazing at him with identical, and unreadable, expressions.

“I’m sorry,” Zechs said belatedly. “I’m sure he’ll be fine. He’s resourceful, and resilient.”

“Mm,” Relena said.

“Yes,” Noin agreed.

Zechs had the feeling that was meant to be over his head. He frowned, and stole one of the napoleans. “I have paperwork,” he declaimed with all the dignity he could muster. “I’ll see you ladies later.”

 

**

 

“Ah,” Beito said. “I’m glad you’re here. Come listen to this.”

The DoJ official stood in front of a bank of networked screens, where a tech sat manipulating a large keyboard. “What are we listening to?” Zechs asked, joining them.

“More edge-of-legal wiretaps,” Beito said. He offered Zechs a pair of headphones. “Legally, all we’re able to act on are any mentions of Quatre they might make. Fortunately or unfortunately, they’re not entirely stupid. They’ve started using code. We know they know that we moved him. We’re moderately sure they don’t know where.”

The tech cued the tape. Zechs secured his headphones and bent to look at the transcript typing itself across one of the screens. A woman’s voice began to speak, apparently at ease.

 _“We’re thinking of setting up a speaking engagement,”_ she said. _“We’ve got an interested party in Belgium.”_

“Is Belgium a code?” Zechs asked.

Beito grinned fiercely at him. “Belgium,” he said triumphantly, “is Belgium. We set up decoys. We’re parading several disguised agents in various likely places, setting up a few just slightly obvious guard posts, dummy houses. We rush a blond man to a car and make a big production out of it. Let them be seen, whisk them away into hiding.”

“Ingenuous,” Zechs agreed.

 _“Not Belgium,”_ a male voice, oddly familiar, answered. _“I don’t know. Let’s keep looking.”_

“Armand Benat,” Beito identified the voice. “He’s the one we have to watch for. He knows Quatre best, for one, and he’s got a league of old war buddies all very well-placed to do his dirty work for him.”

“That’s the end of the tape,” the tech said. “I’ll let you know when we’ve got more.”

They gave back their headsets, and Beito gestured for Zechs to follow him to an adjoining office. “You’re starting to get permanent here,” Zechs said.

“We keep calling it ‘temporary’, but I’ll be here at least until the Court decides whether there’ll be a trial.” Beito had some mis-matched furnishings now, and a shelf over his computer held a few photographs of smiling black faces Zechs took for a wife and child. Beito waved him to a chair, and they sat together. “I got the copy of your formal report, but tell me your impressions. Uncensored.”

“That house is a shithole,” Zechs said bluntly. “Did your people really vet it?”

“With a full estimate of repairs necessary.”

“He wasn’t ready for that.”

“I’ve been doing this for a long time.” Beito propped his elbows on his desk. “We don’t like to move people in winter. There’s the weather, there’s fewer services, people stay indoors, it’s too late for starting schools and joining teams. It’s hard enough dislocating people when there’s a thriving social life waiting for them. The house isn’t a shithole. It’s just close. I sincerely hope it keeps him occupied right into spring.”

He was reluctantly mollified with that logic. “Still,” he said uneasily. “I think you ought to have given him some warning.”

“What difference would it really have made? He’d have agreed that he could handle it, and it still would have been a shock. Zechs, I appreciate what you’re getting at. But you need to trust me and my people on this.” Beito waited for Zechs to make any final objections; Zechs didn’t. “Let me distract you with a new problem, then,” he continued briskly. “Our friends from the colonies are making noise about coming back to Sanq.”

“That’s more travel than there’s been in five years.” Zechs propped his foot on his knee. “Did they say why?”

“You’ll love it. They want to deliver a memorial to Quatre.”

“You’re kidding!”

“I only wish. While you were gone a story broke that Quatre didn’t die of natural causes– that he was murdered. And not by Earthers.”

“How did it get out?”

“We haven’t traced it yet. It came out in one of the small conspiracy blogs. And whoever the source is, they’re apparently considered trustworthy, because it hit cable, and then prime time.”

“Where’s this connect to the memorial?”

“As far as we can figure it’s a cheap attempt to mis-direct the negative attention. That, and get their people back on solid ground, so they can find the source. Or Quatre.”

“Do you have any idea who the source is?” Zechs asked.

“We have a watch-list. Now that we’ve got Quatre settled, I want to bring you onto this. Wait– they know you as Peacecraft. Damn. Oh– I mean, obviously it’s up to you and Relena, in your official capacities, to decide whether to allow the delegation back–“ Beito hesitated. Then he laughed. “I have to admit, it gets complicated, this double identity you have.”

“I made that case to Relena, once upon a time.” Zechs smiled grimly. “But as I’d already abdicated, she was free to order me. She felt I owed it to our people.”

“And your people accepted you back.”

“Not at first. Perhaps many never will. What I did wasn’t particularly excusable, in their eyes.”

“The Zero System.”

That was highly classified knowledge, these days. Zechs looked Beito sharply.

The older man spread his hands. “I got an intensive briefing on a number of things when I was brought into this. You, amongst other sensitive topics. I’ll confess, though, I was absolutely fooled before. I never knew Zechs Merquise and Milliardo Peacecraft had anything to do with each other.”

“They never should have.” Zechs picked at a sliver of dirt beneath his thumbnail. “God willing, they never will again.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to raise a painful past.”

“We’ve all got one.” He exhaled, and sat forward. “I’m happy to help. I’ll clear it with Une. And I think I can tell you that the delegation will get their permission. It might even be helpful– we can watch who they talk to, what they try to do, better from here than we can in the Federated Colonies.”

“Amen to that. Here, give me a second to pull some files together for your review. And I’ll leave it to you to brief Her Highness.”

“I will.” Zechs stood. “If you want to requisition some better office furniture, pass it on to Noin. She’ll get it through for you as a favour.”

“I might take you up on that. Saves scrounging for empty file cabinets.” Beito filled a dossier quickly from various stacks on his desk, and extended it. “More thorough materials to come, but that’s enough to get you started.”

“Thank you.” He glanced through the papers. The watch-list was prominent, at the top. “I’ll get started.”

“Zechs,” Beito added then. “Quatre will make it. He was ready.”

He inclined his head to that. “See you soon.” He turned for the door. “Excuse me,” he said, and looked back. He held up the watch-list. “This name– Søren Laugesen.”

“You know him?”

“I don’t know.” It tugged at something familiar, though. “I think I’ve heard it before.”

Beito found a copy of his own, and referenced a computer file. “One of the billion or so relatives,” he said. “Nephew. Mother Iraia Winner-Laugesen.”

“The sister who was killed.”

“Yes.” Beito clacked two keys. “Father’s not in the picture. The kid is on the list because he’s on Earth. Music school in Paris.”

“He was at the funeral,” Zechs remembered. And he was sure that he was the nephew Quatre had spoken of that day, when Zechs had made an unconsidered effort to invite himself into Quatre’s personal life. “Right,” he said. “See you soon.”

“See you soon.”


	10. Ten

“Thank you for meeting with me,” Zechs said. He held out his hand.

The young man nervously clutching an instrument case freed one damp palm to press against Zechs’. “Thank you,” he parroted uncertainly.

Zechs put on his most encouraging smile. He hadn’t dealt with children this age since he’d been an Instructor at Victoria. He was finding it held more charm now, the boy’s very visible earnestness, his carefully groomed school blazer, his rebelliously long hair. Long hair that same flaxen blond as Quatre’s. As Quatre’s had been, anyway, before Beito had dyed it.

“Please sit down,” Zechs said, and took his own seat. Søren Laugesen scrunched awkwardly into one of the deep leather chairs. They were meeting in the Vice Chancellor’s private office, and from the dart of Søren’s eyes, it was not a place he’d ever been before. Zechs opened his portfolio, and set an uncapped pen on the top page. “Do you know why I’ve asked you to meet with me?”

“No, sir.”

“Zechs.”

“Zechs Merquise.” If possible, Søren’s eyes went wider. “Yes, sir.”

Civilians familiar with that name often had parents who had not been civilians when he’d been using it. Zechs let it pass unremarked. Instead, he said, “I rather think you do know, Søren.” He removed a newspaper from his portfolio, and folded it open to the second page. He placed it precisely between them, the print facing the boy. “I believe you were the anonymous source who started all this.”

Søren went ferociously red from hairline to collar. His voice cracked as he tried to protest. “I– I wouldn’t–“

“You’re not in trouble.” He deliberately relaxed his posture and folded his hands. “You didn’t do anything illegal or wrong.”

The boy let out a shaky breath and clutched his case to his chest. Violin, Zechs thought; he had played it as a child, too, and knew the shape very well. There were fresh callouses on his fingers and chin, though, not the old ones earned by years of study. Zechs noted that for the moment, and brought his eyes back to Søren’s face.

“How did you know it was me?”

“The reporter you spoke to gave us your name. I know she promised not to, but it was very important that we know for sure who had said these things.” Zechs touched the article in question. A large photograph of Quatre– several years out of date, taken, perhaps, even before the colonies had federalised– dominated the column. In bold text, the title asked, ‘Whose Victim?’

Søren looked anywhere but at the paper. “They murdered him,” he said flatly. “Because he didn’t want to do what they told him to. They murdered him the way they murdered my mother.”

He had not, Zechs began to realise, anticipated the sympathy he would feel. Empathy. He knew what it was like, to be orphaned by betrayal. To have a deadly secret and be unable to tell it. And he had to keep a secret from Søren, now; that he was wrong, and his uncle had not been killed at all, but had left him, all the same.

Gently, he asked, “Why do you think that?”

“Because it’s true!” His cheeks flushed pink again, Søren clenched his hands on his violin case, then grabbed up the paper. “When I was accepted at the Conservatory my uncle said he wanted me to go because it was the best school, but in private he told me it was because I would be safe on Earth, that the things that could happen in the Colonies wouldn’t happen here. And he told me what had really happened to my mother, how they killed her to make Uncle Quatre do what they wanted, and how he was afraid for all of us, because he knew one day they would ask him to do something he just couldn’t, and then terrible things might happen. I just knew– I just knew when I heard he was dead that they’d done it!”

His impassioned speech left him breathless and overwrought. Zechs gave him time to calm down, politely averting his gaze. He poured the boy a glass of water from the pitcher on the desk and held it out. When Søren finally took it and sipped, Zechs picked up his pen and pretended to take notes.

“Do you have any evidence?” he asked finally. “Did anyone say anything to you that made you think so? At the funeral, maybe?”

Søren shook his head. “No, sir. But I know it’s true. They said in the news it was a congenital heart defect. That’s a lie. Well– he had a defect, just like I do, but it runs in the family, especially for boys, and no-one ever died from it.”

Zechs nodded as if he agreed. “Just to be clear,” he said. “No-one ever told you they knew for sure that your uncle had been murdered?”

The boy’s chin jutted pugnaciously. Then he sagged in his chair. “You don’t believe me.”

Zechs closed the portfolio; then he let his hand fall on the desk, closer to Søren’s side. “I think,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “that sometimes we want things to be true, because the anger feels better than the grief. But that’s not an answer. It’s not an alternative. There’s more troubles in anger than you think, Søren.”

“They’re going to get away with it.”

He almost didn’t. But Søren was a very young man, begging him for just the smallest crumb of understanding.

“They aren’t,” he said softly. “I promise you.”

Søren blinked once. His jaw firmed, as he realised what that meant; as Zechs realised he had gone a little over the line of what ought to have been strictly confidential, beyond even the imagination of a boy only dimly related to the issue.

“Yes,” Søren said fiercely. “ _Thank_ you, sir.”

 

**

 

“If his uncle really did tell him everything that was going on, the kid ought to have known better than to go talking around about it,” Sally disapproved.

“He didn’t, not precisely.” Zechs finished typing his report and sent it to the printer. “He’s friends with an older student who fancies himself a journalist. Things were said in confidence that this so-called friend passed on to the blog, posted anonymously. Couldn’t resist a good story.”

“Well, it might have been unintentional, but that doesn’t make it harmless. Did you talk to the amateur newshound?”

“And see my name and every question I asked on the net within an hour? No, thank you.” Zechs stood to fetch the print out and stuffed it into an inter-departmental mail folder. “I told Søren to be careful who he trusts and I left.”

“I still think–“

Beito appeared at the door and waved for their attention. “Meeting in Lady Une’s office.”

Zechs raised his eyebrows at Sally. “Hold that thought.”

Noin was already there, humming with energy. Une waved them in and shut the door. “Good news,” she said fiercely.

“There’s going to be a formal announcement,” Noin told them. “But they’re going for it. They’ve accepted there’s enough grounds to warrant a trial.”

“Yes!” Sally was back on her feet, wrapping her arms about Noin. Une shook hands firmly with Beito, but allowed herself the indignity of a stiff embrace with Zechs. Noin wore a wicked smile as she produced a bottle of champagne from her purse, and Beito ducked out to fetch coffee mugs from the common sink. They popped the cork, and Noin poured a frothy cupful for each of them.

“To a solid win,” Beito toasted. “Even if we lose the trial, we’ve opened the door.”

“Closed it,” Une corrected. “On Benat and Lazar and every corrupt official in the Federated Colonies.”

“To a victory,” Zechs said.

“To Quatre,” Sally contributed.

They all drank to that. Une sipped twice, then said, “Oh! We have to get the news to him. He should hear it from us before it hits the airwaves.”

“Zechs, when are you due to check on him?”

“A month from Friday.” He hadn’t wanted to have such a long delay, but they had to exercise caution– more now than before, even. That thought sobered him.

Noin noticed. “He’ll be thrilled,” she said softly. “It’s what he wanted.”

It was nearly night, in Wales. Quatre would be sitting by the fireplace in the kitchen, now, a cup of tea in hand– or maybe he’d be in the barn, feeding that goat that had never left. Or he’d be out at the pub with his new neighbours, making new friends, laughing at new jokes– not thinking about old troubles. Zechs could only hope so.

“God,” Sally said, interrupting his maudlin turn. “The memorial. What do you think will happen with that, now?”

“I’ll lay you odds they’ll go through with it.” Noin refreshed her mug, then Une’s. “They can’t just change their minds now. You don’t give statues back.”

“We can pray they do.” That from Une. Beito looked askance at her, and she elaborated, “We’ll end out arresting them on Sanq grounds. It would be a political nightmare. Especially if it ever does come out that Quatre is alive.”

“It won’t,” Beito assured her firmly. “My people have never once let a witness slip.”

“And what about after the trial?” Zechs asked abruptly.

Beito lowered his cup from his lips. “Pardon?”

“After the trial. Will he ever be able to come back, get back his life?”

Noin took his arm. “Excuse us a moment,” she murmured to the others, and put their cups safely on the table. She drew Zechs out of Une’s office into the hall, several steps away from the door.

Zechs was uncomfortably aware of the stares that followed them out. “Am I in trouble?” he asked her, unconsciously lowering his voice.

Noin was his oldest living friend, and he knew the expression she was wearing, right down to the way it tugged her lower lip between her teeth. She said, “You want to tell me what happened between you and Quatre?”

Suddenly he wished he hadn’t had that glass of alcohol; his wits entirely deserted him, and he could only stare at her, shocked she had guessed when he’d believed he’d been absolutely circumspect.

But of course she guessed, it penetrated dimly– she was always a step ahead of him, even when she stood doggedly behind him, even dragging him out of a room populated by his superior officer and the Department of Justice, before they had cause to suspect what she did.

“Nothing happened.” He met her eyes. “I stopped it. I swear to that.”

“Then I believe you.” Noin exhaled. “But take this as it’s intended, Zechs, not as a criticism– it sure doesn’t look like nothing.”

He didn’t like it. But he considered it, at least– that he at least gave off the appearance of a man inappropriately emotional about the case. Inappropriately attached to someone he was supposed to protect. Objectively. Dispassionately.

“I’ll switch with you.” She touched his hand. “I’ll take over the visitations with him.”

“No.” He managed a smile. “You’re right to warn me. But now I am warned. I won’t slip.”

Noin accepted that. He wasn’t sure he would have, in her place, but she accepted his decision without any further debate. “Well, you’ve got a month to get over him. He’s not that cute, anyway.”

He laughed. “Practically unattractive.”

She tweaked his cheek with a quick pinch. “I’m sorry,” she said, genuinely this time. “It sucks, doesn’t it?”

“I should have fallen for a chef.”

“He’s got a cousin.”

“Sir?” It was one of the younger agents. “Sir, it’s the Princess, calling for you.” She offered a handheld phone, and stepped aside. Noin turned her head away, politely deaf for the moment. Zechs put the phone to his ear.

“Relena?”

 _“Hello, dear.”_ There was a fair amount of noise in the background, and her voice was slightly raised. It was the code they used, between them, for urgent communication. Zechs signaled Noin for her attention.

“What’s up?” he asked his sister cautiously.

_“I’ve just had a message from the Minister of Defence. The colonists have decided not to wait for our permission. There’s a shuttle in the atmosphere. It’s requesting clearance to land at Voiget Space Port.”_

“Damn it.” He stared at Noin. “Relena, do not grant clearance.”

_“I can’t keep them in the air forever. I can’t keep them in the air at all without creating an international incident. I’m not asking what to do, Zechs. I’m telling you what’s already being done.”_

“Damn it.” She hung up, then, and Zechs did as well. “I’m going back to the capital. Tell Une I want a full protective detail in the palace five minutes ago. There’s bad weather coming.”


	11. Eleven

The shuttle sat on Voiget’s long runway, radiating heat from re-entry, when security let him through to his sister in the cordoned reception lounge. He crossed to touch her slender back, and she faced him, smiling through her obvious worry.

“Oh,” she said. “You’re still in uniform.”

“Damn.” He’d completely forgot such considerations in the rush to meet the shuttle. He cast a look about for some magical form of remedy, but it was Relena who came to his rescue.

“Tomas is here. He’s your height, or nearly. Go change suits with him.”

“Yes.” He excused himself and went to do so. Tomas had been one of Relena’s coterie of young students; now one of her trusted friends, though not with sufficient security clearance to attend the landing inside with her and Zechs. He was, however, sufficiently informed to know that Agent Zechs Merquise could not be seen in that lounge by the colonists. His formal coat was a little plain for a prince, and his shoes decidedly pinched, but all in all it would do for a last-minute disguise.

When he returned to the lounge, Une had arrived. She dismissed his entrance with a glance, then looked twice. “Forgive me,” she said. “I never know who to expect.”

“Quite all right.” He joined them at the window, trying to ignore the instinct that wanted both vulnerable and irreplaceable women very far back from that very fragile glass. No-one out there was going to take a pot-shot at Relena Peacecraft; even they if they were stupid enough to carry a weapon, Preventers were already boarding the shuttle to conduct a security search. Not even diplomats were immune from that necessity.

“Do they know what we did for Quatre?” Relena asked him. Her expression was solemn, abstracted. He couldn’t guess her thoughts. She wore snug, pale trousers and a stiff ivory coat edged in gold; it lent her an oddly boyish look, an illusion of implacability.

No, not illusion. If Zechs had learnt one thing about his sister after returning to Sanq, it was that his sister had inherited all their father’s iron will. And despite himself, he felt a swelling of pride.

“We suspect they do,” Une answered for him.

“Do they have any way of proving it?”

Une smiled briefly. “No,” she said succinctly.

They formed a little welcoming committee, a few inconspicuously armed agents at attention behind them, as the colonists debarked and climbed the covered walkway to the Space Port. A few aides, Benat– of course– with a woman Zechs vaguely remembered as Razel Wodobinski. She had spent at least half the war in a holding cell in D Sector for terrorist activities. Like many such colonists, she had been re-branded a patriot since the colonies had pulled out of ESUN. Not terribly unlike Quatre.

Benat sketched a very proper bow to Relena first, then Zechs, and finally Une. “I understand there was some surprise in our visit,” he said congenially. “I’ll have to contact my people. It was my understanding all credentials had been taken care of. I most profoundly apologise for the misunderstanding, but I am extremely grateful for your gracious permission to land.”

He was a smooth liar. The flattery was sincerely rendered.

Relena smiled with all evidence of believing him, and extended a hand for Benat and Wodobinski. “However inauspicious a landing, we very much look forward to hosting you during your stay. Given the tragedy that attended your previous visit, it is only fitting that you rejoin us bearing a symbol of peace and memory.”

It was a pretty speech. With sharp reminders that, forgiven or not, no-one had forgot. What everyone knew, and did not say. Relena placed blame for Quatre’s “death” on these very people. She’d revoked their visas for it, when they’d needed the cover to get Quatre out of the capital.

Benat only bowed with a murmur of thanks. Wodobinksi wore a frozen scowl.

“We’re happy to drive you straight to the capital,” Une interposed. She gestured to the doors behind them. “My people will see that your baggage arrives safely.”

“Of course,” Benat replied. “We’re quite content with your arrangement, Lady.”

 

**

 

“The one good thing about this is that they’ll be out of here before the news about the trial hits,” Une muttered.

Zechs had no choice but to attend the press conference in his public role as Prince of Sanq– the very un-armed Prince of Sanq on a stage full of unprotected delegates. Relena had stepped in to plan the conference, designing a three-hour long spectacle with the unveiling of the colonial memorial as the centre-piece to long speeches honouring the many fallen heroes of the wars, of whom Quatre Winner was only representative. She had culled from the War Archives for a collage of video and photography to play as a slide show on the gigantic screen behind the stage. And with less than a week to accomplish it, she had managed to import a quartet of veteran musicians from Quatre’s music programme to play an original composition. It would be quite the affair. If not quite big enough to overwhelm the news story that was sure to follow. The High Court, according to a friendly source, was days away from releasing the announcement, and the first formal subpoenas.

News cameras were everywhere, and the hall was buzzing. Zechs’ nerves were buzzing too, on entirely unfounded fears. The colonists were hardly going to start assassinating the nobility of nations, but he couldn’t shake his mood. The feeling lingered.

A young page in Sanq’s colours approached him diffidently. “Your Highness, they’re ready for everyone to take their seats.”

“Eagle Charley four,” Une whispered, and Zechs climbed the stairs onto the stage for his seat at Relena’s left. He would be all but invisible behind the hefty speaker’s podium. Relena, already stationed there, shared a brief smile with him. Across a small aisle, Minister Benat sat holding a square-shaped, velvet-wrapped bundle; he nodded benignly to Zechs.

A flash of the overheads warned everyone, and then left them in dimness. The quartet, hidden on a stage-side balcony somewhere, struck up the first note, and began to play.

“Welcome,” Relena said simply, and began the show.

All in all, it went quickly and smoothly. The photo montage, though behind him, was cleverly reflected by mirrors at the back of the hall so the delegates could enjoy it. It was an unsparingly honest memory, and he wondered how closely Relena had worked on it. It showed the video of the murder of the Federation Doves, Heero Yuy’s Gundam viciously bisecting the plane with a single blow. It showed the rise of Oz, Treize Khushrenada in his signal blue uniform inspecting troops at a conquered Alliance base. There were soldiers, wounded, civilians both on Earth and in the colonies. Duo Maxwell, painfully fifteen, being dragged through a screaming crowd toward execution. The destruction of Gundam Deathscythe in Space by Oz cadets. There was Relena, in her grand finery, and later in a smoke-and-sweat-stained space suit, calling to her people. There was Zechs– or, more properly, Milliardo Peacecraft, the leader of White Fang, vowing to destroy the Earth with the Libra if the colonies were not granted freedom.

Unstintingly honest. A few seated near Zechs snuck him uneasy looks. Zechs endured it stoically.

With the slide show holding on a slow pan over the poppy-covered War Dead Cemetery in Hokkaido, Japan, Relena called Benat to the podium. The Minister’s remarks were brief and surprisingly eloquent. It reminded Zechs that Benat, too, had been a patriot once.

“A day will come,” Benat said, “when names like Quatre Winner will never have been known to any living person except as letters in a textbook. While the opportunity is ours, we ask that the Kingdom of Sanq, a place Quatre once protected with his own life, and the place where he tragically lost that life, hold in trust for him this memorial, given by the people of the Federated Colonies in his memory, and in the memory of all our heroes.”

“Thank you,” Relena said, her clear high voice lifting over the hush. She accepted the plaque and held it as Benat unveiled it, a fine glass and– was that Gundamium? Zechs wondered sharply– emblazoned with the words “We Will Remember.”

“Thank you,” Relena repeated. “And our thanks to all those who have fought, and refused to fight; who died, and died for a cause; and who live, ready to give up that life for freedom and for peace.”

“It was nice,” Zechs told her later.

She made a face a him. Noin helped her shed her formal clothes, and together they began the apparently sticky process of removing the small silver tiara from her hair. “It was supposed to be better than nice.”

“He’s grumpy,” Noin contributed.

“I’m sorry about the pictures, Zechs.”

“It’s all right.” He filled a cup of tea– decaffeinated, this time of night. “It’s part of history. I shouldn’t be censored out of it just because I happen to be sitting in the audience.”

He knew she knew he’d feel that way, but she seemed grateful for the belated acceptance. “No pictures of Quatre, though,” she said.

“I wondered about that.” Noin tossed the tiara carelessly to the floor. “Did you ask them to do that?”

“Politics.” Relena turned her back to Zechs and did something that involved a lot of wriggling under cover of her dressing gown. A moment later, her hand emerged holding her brassiere.

“Relena!” Zechs said, shocked.

“Oh, relax. It was killing me.” She faced him, belting her gown closed. “I wanted as few reminders that Quatre was involved with the FC as possible. Benat still managed to slip it in, but I think we got the point across.”

“It’s going to come out eventually,” Noin said. “During the trial.”

“And I want every mention of Quatre during that trial to be as an outside victim, not an inside turncoat.” Relena was firm. “And that’s personal.”

“Relena.” He couldn’t say what made him think of it. “Do you ever hear from Heero Yuy?”

She went still as stone. Noin, alarmed, stared between them.

“I’m sorry,” Zechs said awkwardly. “I–“

“You’d know before I would.” She was a little pale, or did he only imagine that, in the odd light of her dressing room. “I thought Preventers screened all my mail. My calls. I doubt I so much as see one of the cleaners unless it’s been cleared by Une.”

Her levity was forced. Zechs didn’t attempt to match it. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “Forgive me.”

“Yeah,” Noin said. “He’s just a man, after all. What can you do?”

“Call for a chocolate,” was Relena’s opinion. “And start a bath. If you two will excuse me, I think I’ve earned it, and I want to wash off all that charm Benat left on me.”

Zechs rose automatically as she exited, but Noin flopped down next to him on the loveseat. “You’re an ass,” she grumbled, as the door shut behind his sister.

“I didn’t realise it was a sensitive topic.” He grimaced and rubbed his jaw. “She’s still in love with him?”

“A girl will always feel something for her first love.” She pinched him lightly. “Just leave her alone about Heero, okay?”

“Done,” he promised fervently, as a knock interrupted them.

One of those very cleaners, but not an actual servant– he was a Preventers agent in domestic uniform, one of the many layers of security Preventers had in place for the duration of the colonists’ stay, across the palace in the guest wing. He had a small portable viewer in hand. “Sir,” he said, “you had better take this.”

“I’m not on duty,” Zechs protested. “By policy I’m not supposed to receive Preventers communications when I’m not in my official capacity.”

“This has been cleared,” Holland replied. He set the portable on the tea tale and opened the screen. He turned it on.

Zechs leant forward quickly. “Søren?” he said, startled.

It was Quatre’s nephew, looking absolutely frazzled, and very obviously standing in an unsecured open-air public phone booth.

 _“Mr Merquise!”_ the boy exclaimed. _“I’ve been trying to get to you for an hour!”_

“Where are you?”

 _“Still in Paris, but they made me answer so many questions, and my account is almost out.”_ Søren went pawing through his schoolbag, bumping the screen with his elbows. _“Sir, the memorial, the memorial the Minister gave for my uncle, on the television, I’ve seen it before!”_

“How could you have?” Noin asked, squatting by Zechs to see. “It was made for this ceremony.”

 _“No, it wasn’t, it was made for one eight years ago on L4.”_ Finally he freed himself from his bag and pressed something blurry to the screen. He pulled it back enough for the image to resolve– a photograph album. Marked to a page of three familiar blond heads: the boy himself, only a child, and Quatre, and a woman who could only have been Iraia Winner, the sister who had died. _“I was there when they gave it to my uncle. It was from the League of Mothers. It was right before my recital.”_

Noin and Zechs exchanged glances. “Well, it’s tacky, reusing a memorial,” Noin said. “But not criminal.”

“Does explain how they were able to move so fast,” Zechs added. “Søren, I’m sorry, but I don’t see what this has to do...”

_“They must have stolen it! It was in my uncle’s house on L4 in his study!”_

“Unless you have proof– and even if you did, we couldn’t really do anything. Sometimes it’s not wise to embarrass people, even when they have it coming.”

_“But what about the phone calls?”_

Noin’s eyebrows shot up. “What calls?”

 _“They keep calling my dormitory, even when I won’t answer. They say my uncle is alive and they want to know if he contacted me ever.”_ Søren’s eyes were anguished. _“Is it... I asked them to prove they were agents, like you, because I didn’t think they were, somehow, but I didn’t think of it right away, so at first I told them no, that he was dead, but they said there wasn’t really a body that day at the funeral, that it was all faked, and they made me swear I’d tell if he called me or came to see me–“_

In the pause for breath, Noin was on her feet, reaching for the phone and demanding a secure line from the operator.

“Did they tell you any names, Søren?” Zechs asked intently.

_“They said they were calling for you, that since you interviewed me there were new questions. I didn’t know at first, I’m sorry.”_

“It’s all right, you’ve done nothing wrong.” He offered as reassuring a smile as he could manage. “Søren, I want you to go find the nearest policeman you can and say this to him exactly– First Intermediary Day of Sukkot.”

_“First–“_

He repeated it. “They’ll take you somewhere safe until a Preventers agent can come get you. You’re not in danger, but we want to be careful.” Oh, the boy looked scared, not at all calmed by that.

 _“Sir?”_ Søren asked. A beeping interrupted. _“My account,”_ he said, distressed now. _“Sir, is it true? My uncle’s alive?”_

It was cruel, but all he could think to do was wait the last ten seconds for the warning beep to stop, and the screen to go dead.


	12. Twelve

“It is a pleasure to be in this lovely country again,” Benat said jovially. “I admit, we lack certain aesthetics in the colonies. There’s something about a blue sky that’s so visually stunning.”

“The colonies have their own pleasures,” Zechs responded diplomatically. “It might be a case of ‘the grass is always greener on the other side.’”

“Other side of what?” Wodobinski interrupted.

“The wall, I believe, isn’t it?” Benat answered her.

“Fence.” Zechs let the woman’s unceasing rudeness pass, unremarked, yet again. “I take it that’s not a metaphor that made it into Space.”

“My grandfather used to say it.” Benat sipped his espresso and returned the tiny cup to the china service. They had a fine view from the balcony over the capital city; and it was a fine, clear day, a winter rarity, though the breeze was most charitably characterised as ‘stiff’. “And while I have an opening, your Highness, and sufficient privacy, may I finally be so bold as to tell you that we once fought together?”

Zechs inhaled slowly through his nose. “The Battle of Libra.”

“Indeed.” Benat’s smile was every centimetre a courteous and comradely thing. “I even had the honour of meeting you, though we weren’t formally introduced. I greatly admired you. I had great hopes for your leadership of White Fang.”

“Then I’m afraid I must have disappointed you.” He had met with such comments before. Angrier, often, bitter.

“Perhaps,” Benat allowed. The wind plucked at his thinning hair. “I was a younger man then. A hothead, I confess. I think for years I hardly spoke except to add toa very treasured litany of grievances against Alliance, and the wilful ignorance of the Earthers.” He laughed with an easy self-deprecation. “Nothing strokes the ego quite like a sense of moral superiority.”

Zechs smiled reluctantly. Benat was a charmer, all right. He had the uncomfortable feeling that if he had not known all Benat was guilty of, he might have quite liked the man.

“I’ve been thinking on it, this past week,” Benat continued. He poured a fresh cup for himself, and offered the pot to Wodobinski and then Zechs. Both declined. “I suppose the ceremony has me a bit nostalgic. The answers seemed clearer in those days, didn’t they?”

“They weren’t,” Zechs disagreed softly. “Or perhaps I just never knew which questions to ask.”

Benat nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve read all the transcripts held at the War Archives,” he confessed suddenly. “The records of your final battle with Heero Yuy. Everything that was saved from that day. I’ve studied the speeches you gave as the leader of White Fang. Tried to imagine every possible interpretation.”

He was increasingly uncomfortable. “And your conclusions?”

“I believe I understand what you were trying to accomplish.” Benat cradled his cup between his palms. He seemed, perhaps even was, genuine in his words, in his serious, and blameless, gaze. “I find it extraordinarily brave, given your youth and upbringing. And in a strange way, I believe you did achieve the peace you were seeking.”

“At the cost of betraying those who gave me the power to do it.”

“Yes.” Benat’s expression went hooded, closed. But then he sipped his coffee, and said, “Yet I find I can forgive it. After all, we colonies eventually freed ourselves, and in a bloodless revolution. Thanks in no small part to yourself.”

“And men like Quatre Winner.” Where that imp came from, he didn’t know, and he regretted it immediately. Benat knew Quatre was alive, and provoking the man would lead nowhere useful. But he had no way to take it back.

Wodobinski wore her habitual scowl, carved a little deeper. Benat held his eyes, and only nodded gravely.

“Indeed,” he repeated. “Quatre was a hero, by any definition. He willingly dedicated his life to the colonies.”

Willingly. He felt a surge of temper, remembering Quatre’s subdued testimony, that fresh sting of self-loathing as he called himself a collaborator. And Benat sat there, all innocence, daring him to claim he knew otherwise.

When the time to arrest you comes, Zechs silently promised him, I hope I’m the one who gets to do it.

But for the moment, he forced a smile. “I hate to cut our conversation short, but I think I ought to leave you a decent amount of time to pack. Your shuttle leaves in two hours, yes?”

“You’re correct.” Benat stood, and offered his hand. “A pleasure, your Highness. Will we see your sister before we leave?”

“Regretfully, no. She was called into a closed meeting this morning.”

“Then please convey our thanks for her generous hospitality.” Benat’s cheer was urbane. “Perhaps one day we can return it. The Peacecraft family will always be welcome in the colonies.”

Sally was waiting for him in the hallway. “What do you think they wanted to accomplish?” she asked him. They fell into step, and two of the palace guards followed them down the corridor. “They didn’t leave the grounds except for the ceremony. And we know they didn’t come just for that.”

“I really don’t know,” Zechs replied. He glanced back at the closed suite door. “But I’ll breathe easier when they’re gone.”

“The nephew called for you again.” Sally lowered her voice, with a care for the guards pacing them at a discreet distance. “Three times.”

“Damn.” He sighed, and resigned himself to a night at the office, if he could get away from his princely duties. He’d been putting in too many hours in both places, this past week. They had been unable to track who might have called Søren to inform him his uncle was alive. All they’d managed to do was frighten the boy, who didn’t trust the bodyguards assigned to him by the local Preventers branch and continued to believe Zechs was withholding the truth. He was proving incredibly persistent in demanding it.

“You’re going to have to deal with him.”

“Lie to him.”

“Yes.”

They were interrupted by the appearance of the palace chief of security, who waited diffidently by one of the service stairwells for their approach. “Your Highness, a moment, please,” he said.

“Of course, Reaney.” Zechs switched metaphorical hats, trying to shake off his Preventers persona as quickly as he could. If he felt a little frayed on the edges for it, he didn’t have time to indulge it.

“Sir, I’d like to have you join her Highness in the secure office. We’ve been given advance warning that a certain announcement is about to be made.”

“Now?” He gestured quickly for Sally. “They were supposed to wait!”

“There was a leak from the Hague. The news agencies have it.”

Which meant everyone would have it, soon.

“Relena’s secret meeting,” Sally said.

“Fuck.” Reaney made a gesture to remind him, and he shook his head. To Sally, he said, “Inform Lady Une.” And to Reaney, he said, “Secure Relena, but I have a duty to inform the colonists what’s going on.”

“Will I be permitted to accompany you at least?” his captain asked cooly, not the least impressed with Zechs’ notion of duty.

“You can stand behind me and scowl the entire time,” Zechs promised. “But keep your eye on the woman, not Benat.” He straightened the lace at his throat and cuffs, and returned briskly to the suite he’d just left. Reaney nipped ahead of him to open the door, and announced him.

They caught two of the aides in the act of organising the dozen or so cases of luggage in the small foyer. Benat appeared behind them, and looked quite startled.

“Minister,” Zechs said formally. “It is incumbent on me to inform you that a very grave matter is about to become quite public. I’m sure my sister has been in contact with your embassy and your President, but the burden for a public response will undoubtedly fall on you.”

Wodobinski emerged from her apartment. “Response to what?”

Elsewhere in the suite, a phone began to ring. A moment later it was echoed by a mobile phone in Benat’s baggage, and then three more began to buzz.

“I’ll be sure your shuttle is suitably delayed,” Zechs said, and left them to answer it.

 

**

 

He nearly slipped twice in the slush as he made his way across the lean street. He had acquired a layer of snow on himself by the time he met the shelter of the pub door. His jeep would be indistinguishable from the other road-side vehicles in minutes.

There was music and laughter when he ducked inside, and a welcome blast of heat and light. The little pub was full tonight; a group of grey-haired men occupied one corner, loudly arguing politics, eyeing a gaggle of girls severely under-dressed for the cold and apparently oblivious to the covert leers from men old enough to be their grandfathers. A young family were eating a late meal at a booth. And there, at the bar, was the man he’d come to see. Something in his chest– tightened, or hurt, anyway.

Stop being ridiculous, he told himself sharply.

“Come in, come in.” A woman– her name escaped him, but she was Quatre’s nearest neighbour, the pub owner– passed him with a tray of empty pint glasses. “Can I get you anything, love?”

“Ah, not yet, please.” He shed his coat and draped it over the pile hanging from the door hooks. The woman trailed him back to the bar. He held his breath, feeling like a fool the entire way, and reached out for Quatre’s shoulder.

Quatre whirled at the lightest touch, not quite a flinch. His eyes, wide, skipped over Zechs, and, more worryingly, his hand flew to the small of his back, reaching for a weapon Zechs profoundly hoped he wasn’t carrying.

“Hello,” Zechs said quietly. Under the cover of their bodies, he gripped Quatre’s wrist tightly. “Surprise.”

They had watchers. The bartender– Andrew, Zechs recalled– and Quatre’s quick reaction had drawn the attention of those seated to either side of him. One of them was Rhis.

Who, once his startlement at Quatre passed, put on a gentuine smile of welcome and extended his hand. “Daniel!” he said. “We didn’t know you were coming.”

Zechs grasped the young man’s hand firmly. “I’m afraid I didn’t announce it beforehand,” he said, as the lady on the stool beside Quatre’s vacated her seat for him. “I had a free weekend and decided to drop in for a visit.”

“Good to see you again, Daniel,” Andrew greeted him, and filled him a pint, unasked, waving off his attempt to protest. “Put it on Gwyn’s tab,” Andrew winked.

Gwyn. For a moment, he honestly forgot that was Quatre’s name.

“Sounds fair to me,” he managed to say with a joviality he didn’t feel. He slid onto his stool, and tried to catch Quatre’s eyes.

They slid away. Was it his imagination, or was Quatre pale?

“You came all this way in that atrocious weather?” That from Rhis, who sat with his elbows planted on the bar on Quatre’s far side, peering around with lively curiosity. Certainly his welcome seemed sincere, no hint of jealousy or suspicion. In fact everyone seemed to accept his visit as a simple, pleasant surprise. Except Quatre.

“I didn’t quite count on the snowstorm,” he admitted. The pint arrived in front of him, a local pale honey beer he had expressed a liking for, a month ago. Andrew had a good memory.

“Snowstorm!” Rhis laughed at him. “That’s nothing, mate. We’re having a sweet, mild season, aren’t we, Andy?”

“It’s true, that.” Andrew relaxed against the bar, and his wife– Nia, he finally remembered– joined them late. “He thinks we’re in a blizzard, love,” Andrew confided.

Nia enjoyed that. “Poor city lad,” she teased him lightly. “We don’t have any fine weather controls out this way. Although time was we didn’t need it, either.”

“Listen to her,” Rhis scoffed. “There’s no-one alive remembers that.”

“Not now, but my great-great-grandfather did,” she insisted. She accepted a glass of wine from her husband absently. “Before the big climate change. There were real seasons then, not this year-round winter, snow and worse snow.”

“When was that?” Quatre asked. Zechs found himself watching Quatre, and tried not to be obvious about it. His presence had clearly shaken Quatre out of his ease, and his reintroduction to the flow of conversation seemed awkward, forced.

A question in itself. He had seen Quatre interact with strangers of all stripes at the Summit– was that really six months ago? Even throughout the long ordeal with the Department of Justice and the Court after, Quatre had been charming, engaging, a trained and gracious host. Why did he sit so hunched now, seem to struggle to fit in amongst people who so readily accepted a new face?

“Oh, my,” Andrew said. “A hundred-fifty years at least. Practically pre-Colony, or right around the launching, I’d think. Meirion, you’d know better than I, you’re the historian.” That was directed over the noise to one of the men in the corner. “Meirion,” he called again. “ _Ni angen argoeliad._ ”

Quatre’s head turned to follow the exchange. His eyes caught Zechs’.

“We need to talk,” Zechs said.

Quatre took a carton of cigarettes from his pocket. “ _Esgusodwch fi,_ ” he mumbled, and shook it meaningfully.

“You’re the one who asked the question,” Andrew objected.

“I know Meirion,” Quatre said. “He should just be getting to the answer by the time I get back.”

“I’ll join you.” Zechs followed Quatre through the door labelled ‘WC’, and from there through another door to a small back alley packed with snow-covered cartons. It was freezing, and neither of them had their coats. Their breath steamed in the air. “You’re smoking now?” Zechs asked him, disapproving.

“It’s an excuse to stand alone sometimes.” Quatre lit a cigarette and held it, unpractised, Zechs was glad to see, upside down to burn. He pre-empted Zechs, and said, “I saw the news. There’s going to be a trial.”

“An official investigation.” Quatre frowned, and Zechs elaborated, “It’s an official case. The Situation in the Federated Colonies.”

“But it will lead to a trial?”

“Once the Prosecutor determines those most responsible. The Court issued warrants for arrest.” There was a hard eagerness in Quatre’s face, and he tried his best to provide the details he knew Quatre wanted. “Benat, Eve Vardalos, former Vice President Kelly Krenshaw.”

“Then you’ve got them?”

“No.” Quatre was shivering. He cupped Quatre’s elbow, then took away the cigarette. He crushed it into the snow under his heel. “There were warrants, but these are wealthy, powerful people. Public officials. They’re back in the Colonies. You knew we wouldn’t be able to hold them.”

Quatre’s throat moved as he swallowed. “They’ll call me to testify?”

“Yes.”

“Then they know I’m alive.”

“I think it’s entirely possible they knew all along.” He thought about telling Quatre the truth about that, and decided against it. It would only worry him. “But they don’t know where you are, and we’ll keep it that way.”

“My family.”

“Safe. We’re monitoring all of them.”

Quatre passed a pale hand over his mouth. “All right,” he said after a moment. He opened the door, and went back inside.


	13. Thirteen

Quatre shook him awake at midnight. He said, “My dog is missing.”

“Dog.” It took a moment– a minute– for the brain to engage. Zechs sat up out of his cave of quilts into the bone-chilling air. Quatre blinded him with a hand torch, and he fumbled to find a thread of sense. “Since when?” he managed. “What’s wrong with the lights?”

“It’s the storm.” Quatre’s voice was tight, distressed. “I let them out earlier to the barn. When the electric went I went to check on them but only Connah was there. Mie is missing.”

He’d gone to bed nearly fully dressed, it was that cold. But he pulled one of the blankets about his shoulders, and plunged out of the warm bed to stuff his feet into shoes that felt like blocks of ice. Quatre handed him a second torch. “You can’t mean to go looking,” Zechs said, shocked. “The wind alone–“

“I won’t leave her out in that, she’ll freeze to death!”

That was probably true, if it hadn’t happened already. Zechs felt a sinking stomach. But Quatre was nearly frantic, and he had already been outside in the storm– he was covered in snow, so cold it wasn’t even melting from his cap and coat.

“We stay together,” Zechs demanded. “At all times.”

It was twice again as worse as it had been when he’d arrived only that evening. Even the hand torches couldn’t cut through the flurries, and they stumbled out in drifts that could reach knee-high and concealed every dip and rock and root in their path. Zechs kept a hand locked on Quatre’s wrist, though it numbed his hand from exposure to do it. His scarf was soon soaked and wet, and it didn’t protect his eyes from the stinging gusts.

“Mie!” Quatre yelled, again and again. They searched around the barn in the freezing dark. Connah, the other collie, hobbled anxiously at their feet until Quatre chained him inside. The barn yielded nothing, not even the firewood shelter or the garden outhouse. Zechs found himself flagging quickly, as the adrenaline from his abrupt waking faded and the pervasive cold numbed him limb by limb. He had lost all sense of time, but they’d been searching for at least a half hour, when they finally traced the property fence back to their starting point.

“Mie!” Quatre was getting hoarse. “Hie, girl! _Tyrd yma!_ ”

“Probably it’s just hiding.” He clenched his teeth against their chattering as the wind kicked gritty ice in his face. He knew he held Quatre’s arm still, but could barely feel it. “Probab– Probably back– at the house.”

“She wouldn’t do that.” Quatre’s pale face danced in an out of visibility. The beam of his torch wandered crazily. “She’s trained. She’s a good dog.”

“We can’t stay out here any longer.” He saw he was not going to win that argument, and switched tactics. “Come inside long en– enough to warm up. We’ll come back out.” Quatre agreed only reluctantly. Zechs kept an arm around him as they turned back– how Quatre even knew which direction was beyond him by then– and retraced their steps to the house.

“The bushes!” Quatre said then. “I forgot the bushes.” He broke away so suddenly Zechs lost his hold and he went running off at full tilt, forcing Zechs to follow at disadvantage. He only barely kept up, determined to keep Quatre in the light of his torch. He reeled when the barn suddenly reared up in front of him, a pale shadow. There were footprints in the snow under the overhang. They led around the far side.

“Quatre?” he called.

“Here!” By the old empty sheep pen. He remembered it. He floundered over something under the snow and went down. There was a sharp pain in his hand. He struggled, getting back to his feet– the wind tried to keep him flat. He sucked in deep breaths, gathered his strength, and shoved upward. Nearly knocked over Quatre doing it.

Quatre– a big collie wrapped in his arms. “Hurry!” he said. “She’s barely–“

They broke back into the house with a clatter, as the back door struck a chair in the kitchen and knocked it over. It was just as dark inside as out– darker, without the glare of the snow. At least the wind ceased. In its absence, Zechs began to shiver, uncontrollably. The hand torch had a lantern capability, and he set it on the table to activate it, pulling down on the detachable handle. It cast a bright golden glow over the room, threw the shadows into sharp relief. Quatre lowered his dog to the floor and stripped off his jacket. “Hurry,” he repeated. “Zechs, the blankets upstairs.”

“Yes.” He hesitated only a moment. He fumbled his way to the stairs, leaving the light behind. He shed his clothes as he went, knowing he’d warm quicker without his wet and frozen things. He pulled the quilts off his own bed, and then went to Quatre’s room for the rest. They would need them all just to warm themselves. They could have done it faster with warm water, but he didn’t bet on its availability.

They wrapped the dog together. Zechs wasn’t sure it was even alive, until it whined softly. There was ice in its long fur, and not a stitch of warmth left in it. “Maybe if you lit the fireplace,” Zechs said.

Quatre dove toward it. He ripped the flue open and threw a bucket of wood scraps into the hearth. “It’ll take too long,” he said, even as he struck a match. “When will they get the damn lines up!”

He draped Quatre in a blanket, and took over the matches after the third one failed to light. Quatre lifted his dog onto his lap, sharing his body heat. Zechs finally convinced a damp wad of newspaper to take fire. He fed more scraps to the flame as quickly as dared. When he thought it would burn on its own, he arranged a double pyramid of sticks. He picked up another quilt, and when he wrapped it around Quatre, he wrapped the man in his arms as well, and didn’t let go.

“She’s so cold,” Quatre whispered.

“Can I do anything?”

Quatre stroked Mie’s silky ears. “Get Connah. Please?”

Back out into the storm. But Zechs only nodded. “I’ll be right back.” He left Quatre holding his dog, and climbed the stairs again for dry clothes. He made a run for it. The dog had climbed into the goat’s pen, chain and all. But it came when he called it, an eager tongue lolling, its shaggy tail wagging. “Come, Connah,” Zechs called, and unchained him. “Let’s go in.” He checked for the goat, but its enclosure seemed warm enough, and it didn’t welcome his intrusion.

The fire was going strong when they made it back to the house. Connah slipped inside ahead of Zechs and ran to its owner. It keened plaintively as it sniffed at the other dog. Zechs crouched by Quatre and rubbed his shoulder. “It will be all right.”

Quatre wiped his face with a hand that shook. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have left them out.”

“You didn’t know.” He pressed his lips to Quatre’s chilly hair. “You found her. It will be all right.”

 

**

 

The electricity came back at dawn. Not long after, the dog died.

They’d had next to no sleep. The storm had finally faded to nothing, but the snowfall absolutely forbade any activity outside. Quatre had finally been convinced to rest his head, at least, though he wouldn’t let go of the dog, and Zechs didn’t try to make him. Neither of them spoke.

He finally found the presence of mind to make tea. The electric kettle worked now. There was light from behind the window curtains, and it showed him Quatre’s red and puffy eyes as he knelt to hold the cup to Quatre’s lips. The other dog, Connah, watched him with mournful black eyes, as if it understood everything, and shared Quatre’s grief.

“Go to bed,” Zechs said at last. “I’ll take care of it.”

“There’s no-where to take her.” Quatre smoothed the dog’s fur where the black colour met milky white.

“The barn. Until we can bury it.” He didn’t wait for Quatre to protest. The animal was a feather-light weight in his arms as he lifted it from Quatre’s lap, small paws dangling limply. “Go upstairs.”

Quatre rose with popping joints. He petted the dog’s head, and then his hand fell to Connah, who pressed against his leg.

“I’ll be gentle with her,” Zechs promised quietly.

At that, Quatre seemed to accept, finally, that it was over. Zechs heard him swallow faintly. “Thank you.”

He didn’t have a hand free. And he didn’t know why the impulse took him so strongly, except that it had been a long, hard night, and they were both a little– wobbly, maybe. He leaned down, and he pressed his mouth to Quatre’s.

Quatre turned his head away with a ragged breath. “No,” he whispered, and went upstairs.

His lips were tingling. He licked the sensation away. He managed the door with an elbow. Connah slithered past his legs, but didn’t get very far; the snow had piled up that high, but there was none falling anymore, and there was even sunlight peeking through the clouds. He sank to his ankles at once, and more than once thought he would lose his balance and fall. But he made it to the barn and through the big sliding door. It was cold, inside, and still. He wasn’t sure, now that he was there, where exactly to put the dog’s body. He chose one of the stalls, out of immediate sight, a protected, more private spot. There was still hay in the stall. He kicked a small area clear of it, and laid the dog on the dirt. He tucked the blanket over it, and smoothed the hair along its cheek. It only looked as though it were sleeping.

There was no sound in the house when he returned. He went around checking the lights, and he turned on the heater in the kitchen, and the water boiler as well. He made a second round of tea, and toast with cinnamon and sugar; it was an old treat, an old tradition. Pargan had been the best of care-takers. He cut the toast into triangles and arranged the small breakfast on a tray to carry upstairs.

“Quatre?” He knocked gently. “Are you awake?” There was no response, but he didn’t think Quatre was sleeping. He set the tray on the edge of the mattress, and sat. Quatre lay under the sheets with his shoulder turned toward Zechs. With the long black hair, the thick flannel shirts, he didn’t look like the same person who had asked for asylum ten months earlier. There wasn’t very much of Quatre Winner left in Gwyn Richards.

Quatre’s hand snuck from under the sheet to wipe his face. “Rhis gave them to me,” he said. “They’re from the same litter. To keep me company out here.”

Connah had come on the bed, too. Quatre’s hand sought the dog, traced the ridges of its brows.

“It wasn’t your fault. It was just a tragic accident.” He touched Quatre’s arm. “I’m sorry,” he said simply.

“The way you look at me.” Quatre turned to his back.

“How do I look at you.” He brushed his thumb over the round of Quatre’s biceps.

“Like that.”

“It’s hard to look away.” He traced the rim of a cold ear. “There’s something between us. We both know it’s there.”

“An intellectual connection?” Quatre said dryly. “An emotional obligation.”

“Yes. And proximity... Are you so surprised by it?”

“Not surprised at all.” Quatre licked his lips. His eyelashes, pale gold against that dark dyed hair, fluttered as he blinked, as his eyes sought something else to gaze at in the bedroom. “If you reject me again, I swear I’ll...”

The threat never came. Zechs gave him time, anyway, leaning down slowly. Quatre’s breath sped, then stopped altogether when their lips touched. His mouth was warm, his tongue soft and yielding as Zechs drew it out and sucked on it. Zechs threaded a hand through the long dyed hair instead, finding it dry and a little coarse. He bit gently on Quatre’s tongue, then drew back to press soothing kisses along his jaw and throat. He felt tentative fingers rest against his neck.

“Tell me ‘no’ now, or this is going to happen,” he murmured.

Quatre’s hand trailed his collar to his chest. “Connah,” he said. “ _Eisteddwch._ ” The dog immediately left the bed; it padded away to the corner, toenails scratching across the floor, to where a pillow waited for it. It set its head on its paws to watch them. Zechs didn’t try to shoo it any further away. Quatre sat up. Zechs helped unbutton his shirt, and shed his own to the floor.

“Do you have condoms?” he asked.

“Over the sink.” Zechs toed off his shoes before crossing to the little wooden cupboard where, indeed, a box of condoms lay next to a packet of shaving razors. It was open, Zechs noticed, and two were missing, torn off the corner of the sheet. He ripped a third away and decided not to ask. He found lubricant as well, and brought it with him.

Quatre tossed back the sheets and loosened the ties on the bed drapes. Zechs eased down onto the creaking mattress, and Quatre pulled the drapes shut after him, closing them into the darkness. He rolled Quatre under him, laying on top of him to resume kissing. Quatre was all slim, taut muscle, his body shaped by frugal living. He was oddly shy, as well, his fingers hesitating in skimming over Zechs’s arms and back, clenching to fists before brushing over his backside. Zechs didn’t rush him. He returned the caresses as they wormed free of their trousers. He brought one of Quatre’s legs up, cocking it close to his body and stroking up the goose-fleshed thigh to the soft crease behind his knee.

Together they worked two of the thin pillows beneath Quatre’s back, propping him up and open. Zechs pulled Quatre’s legs about his own waist as he sat back on his heels between them, taking the condom from its foil wrapper and unrolling it over himself. He squirted cold lube onto his hands and rubbed his palms together to warm it before coating the surface of the condom. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness enough to see the bare outline of their activity, the fitful toss of Quatre’s head, the gentle curve of his erection laying back over his indented belly. He carefully shuffled closer, bringing their hips together, and propped himself over Quatre on both arms as he pushed inside.

Quatre’s hands reappeared to grip him tightly. Zechs wedged a knee against the mattress for leverage, and began to move. He kept it slow and uneven, wanting to draw it out, using the tensing and release of the thighs clamped around his middle as signals, go, stop, caution. Wool socks brushed over his knees, and Quatre’s shirt caught between them sometimes, when he’d forget it was there and bend to capture a mouthful of fabric instead of a nipple. He bit through it once, tonguing the cotton until it was wet and he could feel the peak beneath it and Quatre let out a breathy sigh.

He was sweating when he finally reached the point where he had to bring it to a finish for Quatre, so he could let himself go. He fumbled between them for Quatre’s penis, finding it only half hard. It jumped at his touch, and Quatre whimpered. He applied a firm, broad-palmed stroke, thumb and forefinger wrapped in a tight ring about the head. He shifted his weight to the side, nudging Quatre off balance onto his hip, forcing him to arch his back and accept Zechs deeper than before. He fastened his mouth to Quatre’s until Quatre came, his spunk spattering their chests. Quatre wrenched his head away to gasp for air, and Zechs let him go, using both arms to hold himself steady while he pumped hard toward his own orgasm.

It wasn’t spectacular, but it felt damn good. Dazed and heavy-limbed, Zechs let himself rest against Quatre, only vaguely aware of Quatre squirming briefly, and sighing.

It wasn’t long before the chill of the room began to seep through the lingering warmth of sex. When his own cold limbs began to bother him, Zechs pulled out of Quatre, wincing only a little, and tied the condom off. The thought of leaving the bed to find the waste bin was atrocious, but Quatre solved it by doing it himself, slipping through the drapes and returning a moment later with full-on shivers. He rubbed a damp cloth quickly over Zechs and then himself, and when he came back again he brought the blankets with him, burying them under layers of wool and flannel and down. “Connah,” Quatre called, and the dog jumped to join them, walking a circle at the foot of the bed before settling. Quatre put his back to Zechs’s chest and stilled. Zechs took it as an invitation, even knowing it probably wasn’t, and spooned him loosely. For warmth, he told himself, dropping a hand into the smooth groove of Quatre’s waist.

“You should have a heater up here,” he said.

“I tried,” Quatre murmured. “Shorted out every fuse on the floor.”

“Oh.” His feet and hands were freezing. He mimicked Quatre, pulling the quilts tight up to his neck.

There was silence, and a strange gulf of space, between them. Then Quatre asked, “Can you get in trouble for this?”

Zechs stopped his hand from where it was sliding in an unconscious caress over the rise of Quatre’s hip. A moment later, he said, “Yes,” truthfully.

“Are you leaving then?”

“Are you asking me to?”

“No. It’s just– “ But he didn’t finish, and Zechs was left to wonder what it was, just. They huddled together, cold, until soft breathing told Zechs that Quatre was asleep. He stayed awake longer, thinking thoughts that weren’t really thoughts, not noticing that his arm had crept about Quatre’s chest and come to rest over the steady beat of his heart.


	14. Fourteen

The view from the window was serene and blanketing white, stretching as far as he could see. He watched it for a long time, wrapped in a nubby quilt from Quatre’s bed, watching his breath steam the window panes.

The shower yielded water that was barely warm, and he didn’t linger. He didn’t wash his hair, either, unsure if it would even dry in this weather. He double-layered his stockings and left the quilt behind reluctantly, and ventured downstairs. He smelled food cooking.

Quatre was standing over the stove, already dressed, his wellingtons stained with fresh slush. It was late for breakfast, but there were eggs frying in a cast iron pan, and there was cereal and milk on the counter.

“Hello,” Zechs said.

“Water’s still hot,” Quatre answered. He tipped two eggs onto a plate and pushed it toward Zechs. “Toast. I don’t eat pork– everyone here is a pig-eating Christian. I’ve gone vegetarian.”

“Vegetarian,” Zechs repeated, amused. “Is that healthy?”

“I’m losing weight, at least.”

Zechs sat at the table, and tucked his feet under each other, trading as the bottom chilled. He bisected the eggs and dipped the corner of his toast in the runny yolk.

“You’ve done a lot with the place,” Zechs said. In the daylight, the kitchen was marginally more welcoming than it had seemed during the urgency of their search for the dog. There were pretty glazed jugs hanging from hooks on the low rafters, and a vase of dried forsythia flowers on the windowsill. The boards under his feet were old and scuffed, but the table looked newer, a solid piece of workmanship with welcome touches of craft in the carving. It could be nothing next to the luxury he was sure Quatre had enjoyed on L4, impoverished when judged against the finery he had become so used to in the Sanq palace.

“I’ve had some help,” Quatre said, and tossed a slice of toast to the floor for Connah. “Them from town brought me a lot of things.”

The way he talked was different, Zechs noted. He’d noticed it the night before, at the pub with his neighbours. He wasn’t sure he liked it. It didn’t fit with his image of Quatre. He fingered a hank of stripped and patched wire sprouting from a socket, and let it drop. “Have you started work?” he asked. Beito had found a contract job for Quatre with an engineering company out of Manchester.

Quatre gestured vaguely at the laptop facing Zechs on the table. “Dehumidifiers. Rather different from designing mobile suits. Safer.”

“Boring,” Zechs guessed.

Quatre almost smiled, but it faded immediately. “I won’t deny it.” He did not join Zechs at the table, but ate standing, watching his dog as it roamed the kitchen restlessly to sniff in corners. It whined softly, continuously.

“I’m only here for a few days,” Zechs offered, when he realised Quatre wouldn’t speak again. “Make sure you’re settling in. See if there’s anything we can do for you.”

“You’ve done enough.” Quatre sipped his tea. “I have things I have to do today. You can stay here or come, it doesn’t matter.”

“Perhaps I should stay.” At this point, he was the more recognisable of the two of them. “Is there anything around the house I could do for you? I noticed a lot of debris out back. I could help you clear it.”

“No point, with the snow the way it is. Just stay inside.” Quatre sipped again, and dumped out the rest of the cup. “I’ll work later today.”

“If that’s what you want. I suppose I could catch up on some paperwork.” That was a lie. He’d brought nothing more official with him than his badge, and that he intended to keep buried at the bottom of his luggage. “At least let me help you clear the drive.”

Quatre rinsed his plate and left it in the drying rack beside the sink. “Rhis is picking me up,” he said briefly, and left without anything further, Connah clinging to his heels. Zechs did not follow him. A minute later, he heard the front door open, and close.

He exhaled a deep breath. He’d had worse ‘morning after’s, though not by much. It might have gone better if Quatre had stayed in bed until they both woke. He had the distinct feeling that he was not a welcomed guest. He didn’t think he’d been that– well– bad in bed. So Quatre must be hiding things.

And it was his job to find out what, if that was the case. He didn’t need orders to know that. And Quatre had left him one opportunity, in his haste to cut off all others. Zechs finished his meal and washed the dishes. He made a trip upstairs for his handbag, and spent a minute hunting for a functioning power outlet. There wasn’t room for guilt in what he had to do, but he felt a hefty portion, anyway. He plugged his master key into the USB port of Quatre’s work computer, and ran a search for protected files, personal diaries, and keyword clues. While the search was running, he returned to the second floor, but not to the guest bedroom. He went to Quatre’s.

It was not much improved from what little cleaning they’d been able to give it when he’d helped Quatre move in. It was small for a master bedroom, barely large enough for the canopied bed and a small round table, a shoddy wooden chair. There was wallpaper on the two inside walls, faded green and rose. The outside walls were plaster over stone, the window square and solid. The corner held the tiny porcelain sink and a shaving mirror. It was a place meant for function, not the care-worn sheen of comfort gingerly imposed on it.

He felt under the mattress, knelt to look under the bed. There was nothing in the seams of the canopy or bed curtains, and nothing in the window curtains either. He found a kitchen knife under the pillow that had somehow gone unnoticed in their activity the night before. He left it there. There was a collection of newspapers, all different publications, local and international both. They all had articles about the Colonies. About the ‘murder’ of Quatre Winner. The announcement from the International Court about the trial.

It took fortitude to search the barn. He made it across the yard without incident, and the barn at least offered shelter from the wind, but it was bone-chillingly cold, and damp. The hems of his trousers were soon soaking from contact with the wet ground, and he had foolishly forgot his gloves, so that his hands froze through quickly. The goat was still there, staring suspiciously at him as he rooted half-heartedly through the mouldy hay. The dead dog in its stall was undisturbed, its body perhaps a little sunken. It would be best to bury it soon, if he could manage to dig anywhere. But he didn’t know how long Quatre would be gone, and he needed to finish his search first, even if he was more and more convinced he wasn’t going to find anything that shouldn’t be there.

His master key didn’t unearth anything unusual on the computer. He manually scanned through the directories, but all he found were the promised engineering files. Quatre didn’t even have an internet connection. There were two disc movies that turned out to be pornography. He watched no more than a few seconds necessary to determine the content. When he checked the metadata, he saw that they’d never been viewed all the way through. Just long enough to get the job done? The dust jackets had an address label from a town whose name he couldn’t pronounce, much less place geographically. He didn’t think it was likely that Quatre was roaming the countryside. Maybe they were borrowed. There was only one person on Quatre’s list of new acquaintances who could be counted a probable donor.

A relationship, maybe. The gift of pets seemed to confirm that. Perhaps a number of gifts, a number of helpful, hopeful favours. It didn’t mean love. All it meant, probably, was that Rhis was bold in his offers. It only added up past friendship if one were looking for it.

He closed down the computer, and went back to the barn to bury the dog.

 

**

 

When Quatre returned that evening, they shared a cup of tea, and then they made love on the couch in the sitting room.

He hadn’t expected it. It was not precisely romantic, or as emotionally urgent as the night before. Quatre was sore, and it was too cold inside to risk full nudity, so they did little more than worm about in loosened trousers and finish each other off by hand. But Quatre seemed to have regained some of his confidence, and did not hesitate in touching Zechs this time. For all it lacked, it was deeply satisfying.

He lay with his head pillowed on a musty-smelled cushion after as Quatre sat up and adjusted his clothing, finger-combed his mussed hair. There was a sheen of sweat on his neck that disappeared with a brusque swipe of his palm. “Did you get what you need in town?” Zechs asked him.

“More or less.” Quatre rested his elbows on his knees. “I told Rhis about Mie.”

“What did he say?” He let his hand rest against Quatre’s back and rubbed it idly. Quatre was tense, or had been; now he just acted drained, exhausted. He sat up and positioned himself to give Quatre a proper massage, digging his thumbs into the muscle between Quatre’s shoulder blades.

“She shouldn’t have gone out in weather like that.” Quatre was subdued, but he arched his neck a bit as Zechs rubbed him. “Animals don’t do that.” Zechs discovered a knot and concentrated a knuckle firmly over it. Quatre inhaled sharply at the pressure. “He offered another dog. He raises them. The ones that won’t train up he sells as house pets. They’re loyal.”

It was possibly the longest unsolicited thing Quatre had said to him since his arrival. He guided Quatre into rotating his shoulders back, squeezing his arms gently as joints popped. “Do you want another one so soon?”

“I don’t know. Connah’s been so upset all day. He knows she’s gone.”

Zechs knew very little about the intelligence of dogs, but certainly Connah had been reluctant to let Quatre more than a few feet away. It had stared at them while they engaged on the couch. It was creeping closer inch by inch now they were done, and its tail wagged when Quatre said its name.

“How well do you know Rhis?” he asked, trying and probably failing to sound casual.

In any event, Quatre didn’t answer. He slipped away from Zechs’ touch, and went into the kitchen. Zechs let him go. He retucked his shirt and zipped himself, and rebound his hair into the tight ponytail he wore to disguise his most infamous feature. When he couldn’t delay with grooming any longer, he followed Quatre, and took a stance against the end of the half-way that divided the rooms.

“I looked at the papers,” Quatre said. He was washing their cups from earlier. “The President is claiming it’s all a conspiracy to create divisions between the Colonies and the Sphere. Claiming it’s as good as a declaration of war. It’s playing right into their hands. I never even imagined that would happen. I’m a fool.”

Zechs let out a careful breath. “It’s posturing. Politics.”

“Things they never would have dared say even a year ago.” Quatre rose. “I’m not even in their pay anymore, and I’m still dancing their tune. It’s exactly what they want.”

“You can’t think that way.”

Suddenly Quatre turned on him, with such temper that Zechs unconsciously shifted his stance to an attack posture. “I gave you everything I knew! There should have been enough to get warrants for search and arrest. You ought to have been out there shutting them down, stopping them–“

“We’re doing the best we can,” he countered. “We can’t just waltz in on the FC and say, ‘Hands up! You’re under arrest.’ These are powerful men and your government is not just going to give them over to us because we ask.”

“They are _killing_ people!” Quatre snapped. “It’s just as bad as it was with the Alliance! With Romafeller. Do you have to let it get so bad we must fight another war?”

“It won’t come to that,” Zechs said flatly. “You have to believe in us.”

“Why?” the other man retorted. “Why should I believe you? I gave up my life, my family, my home for you. And now you come all the way out to this miserable hell-hole to tell me that my sacrifice doesn’t mean anything.” He pushed his hair away from his face impatiently, and it was just a sliver of that grey light from the windows that allowed Zechs to see the wet streak tracking down Quatre’s thin face. All his anger disappeared immediately, but it left him feeling awkward and uncertain. Quatre’s mood had shifted so quickly he couldn’t keep up.

“I think I need to be alone for a little while,” Quatre said finally, staring down at his feet. “I– I can’t think about this right now. I’ll be outside.”

“It’s freezing outside,” Zechs started unwisely. The slam of Quatre’s hands on the counter shut him up quickly.

“It’s _always_ freezing outside,” Quatre snarled. “It’s freezing and it’s raining and there’s mud everywhere and all that damned snow. I hate it here! I can’t stand being here, it’s the same all the time, wet and cold like any human being can possibly live in this.” He shoved away from the counter before he even finished speaking, and the bang of the door against the wall punctuated his final declaration as he fled the kitchen.

Leaving Zechs standing in it alone.

He dried their cups and set them on the rack, taking as long as he could at the chore. When he had done, he checked out the windows, and worried when he couldn’t see Quatre in the yard. He pulled on his coat and gloves and left the house, trudging through the slippery ankle-deep snow down the hill toward the barn. He stopped when he found Quatre, his dog at his side, much further out on the property at the bare-boned, overgrown hedge. He had a saw in one hand and a handful of brittle branches in the other, and judging from the shorn, level hedge on one side of his body, he’d been working on that project for some time before Zechs had arrived. Satisfied he wasn’t going anywhere, Zechs didn’t approach him. Instead, he made his way back to his truck, digging his keys out of his jacket and sliding himself into the cab. At first it seemed ridiculously warm inside, but it was only the cessation of that punishing wind. His frozen ears and fingers protested painfully as he settled behind the wheel.

He adjusted the vid console to face him, and flipped on his radio and satellite. It took a few moments, but soon a signal appeared on the screen. Zechs keyed his private code, and connected.

 _“Noin,”_ his old friend answered, her face appearing on the screen, turned away from him toward something in her office. The bright sunshine streaming through the window behind her head made him smile.

“It’s me,” he said, and she turned to him immediately. “Checking in.”

 _“You weren’t due until tomorrow,”_ she noted. _“Something wrong?”_

“No.” He blew on his stiff fingers, annoyed to see his breath frosting in the air. He stuffed his hands under his armpits. “I suppose it depends on how you define ‘wrong.’” He sighed, and let his head fall back against the headrest. “I think we made a mistake posting him here.”

One of her slender eyebrows climbed, and she dropped her chin to her hand. They knew each other as well as two people could, and she knew the difference between Zechs thinking aloud and Zechs condemning a command decision. _“I’ve got time,”_ she said. _“Why don’t you tell me about it?”_

“I have concerns about his state of mind.” There was so much snow on his windscreen that he couldn’t see out. The cab was like a little cave, and the cold was definitely bleeding through. He tucked his legs closer, until his knees bumped the wheel. “Maybe ‘concern’ is too light a word.” She didn’t encourage him, except with a look that prodded him to continue. “I think we overestimated how much he could handle. Not that he isn’t. Handling it. But he’s deeply unhappy. I don’t think he’s made many inroads in the community. He’s too isolated here. And the weather isn’t helping.”

 _“Winter is never wholly thrilling,”_ Noin said.

“That’s just it, though. I don’t think he’s ever had to live on Earth during winter before.” It hit him suddenly how true that was, and he actually sat forward in dismay. “Winter is tough enough for people raised on Earth. But he’s a colonial. And even when he was on Earth, he spent most his time in warm climates, even the desert. We’ve stuck him out here in a very extreme season at the same time as we’ve forced him to start a whole new life.”

 _“Everyone has trouble adjusting to witness protection,”_ Noin said. _“It’s tough for everyone. He knew what he was getting into.”_

“You haven’t seen this place.” He gave up on protecting his hands and tried to rub a little warmth into his numb calves and thighs. “We made a mistake, Noin, and he’s out here alone with it.”

_“If you think he’s depressed, Zechs, you have a duty to report it.”_

Did he think that? Yes, he had to admit. Even granted the understandable upset over the dog, there was more wrong than right with Quatre now. Perhaps not dangerously– no, not to the point of inflicting self-harm, but certainly past the point of easy solutions.

“I want to start looking at options for moving him,” he said at last.

_“I don’t think that idea’s going to find a lot of support. We poured a lot of resources into getting him set up there. You know they hate to move people.”_

“I just want to look. Please, Noin.”

He saw her wavering. A moment later, she gave in with a small sigh. _“All right. But not a word to him, you understand me? Don’t hold out hope when I don’t think he’s going to get it.”_

“I promise. Thank you. Really.”

_“You’re lucky you’re still so cute, Merquise.”_

“I’m lucky I have such a good friend,” he corrected. “I’ll check in on time tomorrow. Thanks again.” She waved two fingers at him, not bothering to answer, but her expression was warm as she signed off.

He’d been sitting in the truck for perhaps ten minutes. He didn’t think it was really enough time for Quatre to calm down; on the other hand, it was plenty of time to catch pneumonia in this weather. He left the truck, dislodging a large chunk of ice as he did, and locked it behind him. He took his time making his way back to the barn, and slowed even more as he walked along the hedge. The dog, he noticed, had gone to the back porch, and lay gazing at its master with soulful eyes as he worked relentlessly into the cold. Quatre was steaming, and his breath puffed out in white clouds. It began to snow again just as Zechs reached him.

“Don’t you usually have tea around four?” he asked, coming to a halt.

Quatre glanced up at him, then bent a particularly thick branch, wrenching at it to widen the wound left by the handsaw. “Are you hungry?”

“Yes.” He wasn’t, particularly, but it seemed a bad time to alter Quatre’s routine. “How about I help you clear this and we go inside?”

With a sodden little snap, the branch finally broke, and Quatre dropped it with a curse, rubbing at his gloved palm. “Just put it by the porch,” he answered after a moment. “I don’t intend to worry about it until the snow melts.” He glanced up, but his eyes slid away before quite meeting Zechs’s. He gathered an armful of cut branches, shaking the snow from them, and Zechs obediently followed him, taking the next several branches. They both had a full load by the time they reached the spot where Quatre had started only a quarter-hour earlier, and Zechs was grudgingly impressed by that evidence of Quatre’s strength and speed. Apparently a decade of a desk job hadn’t appreciably slowed him down.

They added their branches to a white-covered pile already in residence at the corner of the porch, and Quatre roused the dog with a low whistle. He opened the backdoor and Connah crammed inside ahead of the humans.

“Don’t you keep your doors locked?” Zechs asked, as they passed through the door.

“Why?” Quatre asked simply. It was, Zechs had to admit, a good point.

Zechs took responsibility for filling the kettle and plugging it in, while Quatre stoked the kitchen fire and fed it slender chops of logs and clods of what looked like dirt. As soon as the clods began to burn, Zechs realised they were probably peat– very strong smelling, and not entirely pleasant. He successfully remembered which cannister held the tea bags, and he poured mugs for them both, adding milk to Quatre’s and drinking his own black. Neither of them sat; Quatre leant against the counter as he sipped his tea, scrubbing dirty fingers against his jacket.

“What do you want to eat?” he asked, just as Zechs summoned the balls to tell him, “It will get better.”

They were both quiet after that. Quatre looked away, and Zechs, cursing himself, stared into his tea.

Then Quatre said, “It doesn’t feel like it.”

Zechs looked up. “I know,” he answered after a moment. “But that doesn’t mean it won’t. The first few months are always the worst.”

“How long will I be here? I want a number. I don’t want the estimate you think will make me happy. I just need to know.”

He blew out a breath that came from deep in his gut. “Years.”

“How many?”

“Five at the least.” A decade, realistically; cases at the Court ran that long routinely. If it did look like it was going to be that long, though, Zechs suddenly promised himself, he would move Quatre if he had to run away with him personally.

Quatre turned to put his mug in the sink. “You must think I’m being ridiculous. A spoilt child.”

“Quite the contrary, actually.”

“You had to do this once.”

That made him blink. “What? No, I never–“

“When your kingdom was attacked and your parents were killed. You had to give up everything. Become another person.”

His fingers had tightened on the mug so much they were burning. Zechs forced himself to release the cup and put it down on the table. “I was very young,” he said. “And I was well cared for.”

“Then I should take the mask merely as evidence that you liked to play fancy-dress?”

That was a true, if slightly nasty, blow. Zechs breathed through it and let it go. “I don’t recommend it,” he said evenly. “I don’t think our situations are all that similar. I was a dispossessed heir. I knew my sister was alive somewhere. My difficulties were compounded by my involvement with Treize and the Specials. By the existence of a war.”

“I don’t think we’re that different at all, actually. Except that you had a chance to avenge your family. You won your kingdom back. You rescued your sister, the princess. Your fairy tale had its happy ending.”

“Yours will, too,” Zechs felt compelled to say. “Your testimony will be crucial in destroying the war hawks. Your family will be safe. And you’ll be able to come out of hiding and take your life back.” Feeling oddly daring, he reached out a hand, and laid it on Quatre’s tense shoulder. “You’re not alone in this. I know it feels that way, but we’re trying to help.”

Quatre closed his eyes. They stood that for several silent breaths. Then, “I know,” Quatre said, and opened the pantry to start tea.


	15. Fifteen

The morning he was scheduled to leave dawned clear and cold.

Rhis had visited the previous evening with a fine supper donated by the pub owners. He and Quatre had conversed at great length in Welsh, and Zechs was sure he’d heard his name at least twice. For all he knew, Quatre had merely been discussing their day, several hours of back-breaking work on the property hedge. Zechs was sporting several blisters, but Quatre had taken a fall on a patch of ice and wrenched his back badly. In another situation, Zechs might have been amused by Rhis’s unsubtle attempts to edge him out—he offered, more than once, to rub Quatre’s back, and did run out to his jeep for a medical muscle warmer. Quatre was brusque in his thanks, but that appeared to be usual, at least from Rhis’s easy acceptance of the attitude. Watching them together, Zechs became more and more certain that they were sexual partners. Or had been, at least. He didn’t know what might become of that, now that Quatre and himself—

Had absolutely no hope of establishing a relationship.

It didn’t stop them sleeping together again. They were getting better at it.

So good, in fact, that he dropped right to sleep afterward, and slept clean through the night. He woke tangled in the blankets with the dog Connah between him and Quatre, happily licking his neck and wagging its tail. Zechs pushed it away with a grimace and hoped it didn’t have fleas.

He had more cause to regret his thorough rest once he made it to the bath. The lube they’d used had dried to a sticky mess, and cleaning it off was a painful process. He ran out of warm water halfway through, and jumped out of the shower stall cursing the inadequate facilities. He bumped into Quatre, coming in behind him with a fresh towel.

“Jiggle the handle,” Quatre mumbled sleepily, and reached over him to the toilet. As promised, the water from the showerhead began to steam again.

“The benefit of an engineering degree.” Just the brief exposure had him shivering. He stepped back under the spray as Quatre bent over the sink to wash his teeth. Cautiously, he said, “My flight is at two. I should leave around ten.”

“Nine, probably. Rhis said the roads weren’t clear yet.” Quatre spat, and set his toothbrush back in its cup. “Do you want breakfast?”

“Only if you feel like cooking. I can get something at the airport, otherwise.” Quatre had taken the precaution of dressing. Zechs was uncomfortably conscious of his nudity. “You want me to leave the water on?”

“I’m all right.” He scraped his dark hair behind his ears. “Do you mind finishing the gammon from last night? I won’t eat it.”

“It’s fine.” He snagged Quatre’s arm through the open stall door. “No good morning kiss?”

He immediately regretted asking.

 

**

 

“Merquise, checking in,” he said, and input his case code. “I’m on my way to the airport.”

It was one of the day officers, Jim Coxxall; a man about ten years Zechs’ senior, with a grizzly scar over one eye from a bad mobile suit battle. He liked to claim the scar had got him both his first and second wives. _“Subject accompanying?”_ the Preventer asked him.

“It’s under discussion,” Zechs said dryly.

Coxxall grinned at him. _“He says yes, you say no?”_

“On the nose.”

 _“They gave you a taser for a reason, sir.”_ Disturbingly, it was difficult to tell if he was joking. _“I’ve been asked to alert you of a development with Winner’s nephew. He’s slipped away from his agents.”_

“What?” Zechs felt his stomach sink. “How did that happen?”

_“They trailed the kid to a music lesson in town. They saw him go inside. He never came out. The instructor said the kid claimed he’d forgot his music, so she let him leave. They searched the building, but he was gone.”_

“Damn it.” That was the second worst thing he could have thought of, short of Quatre being found by his enemies. If they had targeted Quatre’s nephew—there was no good ending to that scenario. “Had he had any new threats? Any contacts?”

_“Not that his agents knew. They put people in the train stations and airport, but they were an hour slow on it. If he met up with anyone savvy enough to so much as cover his head, it’ll be impossible to find him.”_

“Damn it all.” Zechs rubbed his mouth. “It’s got to be in the damn genes. What was he thinking?”

The knock on his window nearly made him piss himself. It was only Quatre, of course, staring quizzically at him from outside the truck. Zechs held up two fingers to ask for time.

“Forward everything to me,” he told Coxxall. “He might try to contact me. I hope. Anything, repeat, anything that comes in for me, from any source, I want to get that call even if I’m at thirty-seven thousand feet and the pilot himself has to bring me the receiver.”

_“Yes, sir.”_

“Signing off.” Zechs disconnected the line. Quatre was still standing next to the driver’s seat, his breath fogging in the cold. Zechs opened the door and stepped out into the packed snow.

“We better get moving.” Quatre held up his wrist, bare of any watch, but it made the point.

“There’s no reason for you to come with me,” Zechs said again. “You’d have to get a cab back. That’s one person more who doesn’t need to know you exist or where you live.”

Quatre disagreed. “I’m just a normal citizen. Normal citizens take cabs once in a while.” He reached out to twitch at the lay of Zechs’ scarf, smoothing it slowly. “At least pretend to understand why I want to see you off.”

“I do.” Not that he was sure he did. He wasn’t entirely sure that Quatre even understood himself. He covered Quatre’s hand with his own, then pulled Quatre to his chest. He refused to let go, even if it added to the awkwardness of kissing with their height difference. He did eventually shuffle into a turn, to press Quatre to the truck. He got his hands as close to skin as possible under the layers of coat and jumper, though he was foiled by the final barrier of a cotton tee shirt.

Quatre’s mouth was red from friction when they finally paused long enough to breathe. “You’ll give me a reputation,” he murmured, and cleared his throat.

Zechs kissed his frozen ears, and sifted out his long hair to cover them. The dull sunlight picked out the gold roots growing in near Quatre’s skull. “The trees have eyes here?”

He shouldn’t have joked. His vulnerable back tingled, suddenly, between the shoulder blades. He would kill someone if anything happened to Quatre’s nephew. Zechs should have taken him seriously.

Quatre missed his inner thoughts. His fingers travelled the buttons of Zechs’ shirt, and hesitated at his belt. “Room in the car for acrobatics?”

He crushed Quatre’s mouth to his. The strong grip in his coat held him near even when he would have ended it, but that was nothing to the fingers pressing the crotch of his jeans.

“We can’t,” he managed. “I have to go.”

“Five minutes won’t matter.” Quatre managed his zip one-handed, though he fumbled with Zechs’ boxers. He pushed Zechs away long enough to open the door again, and he nudged Zechs up onto the seat even as he crouched by the wheel. Zechs stuttered incoherent protests, but only until Quatre slipped a condom on him and followed it with his mouth.

They came in under time. Zechs gripped the door frame dizzily through his orgasm. Quatre rose unsteadily, his knees creaking. They leaned cheek to cheek, Quatre’s breath warm on his hair. Zechs rubbed his back aimlessly, then just settled him close.

“Thank you,” Quatre said, then. “I know I’m a mess. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“It’s not yours, either.” He helped Zechs adjust his clothes, and fixed his scarf again. He took longer about it than it really required. Zechs let him. It was unconventional, but he recognised it as a good-bye. His own throat felt tight.

“Do you still want to come with me?” he asked.

Quatre strained for a smile. He shook his head. “You’re right. It’s an unnecessary risk.” His thumb lingered at the edge of Zechs’ jaw. His eyes seemed red, but he kept them down-turned, blinking too rapidly. “I can accept it. This life. And I will. It’s time to stop fighting it.”

Zechs let out a slow exhale. “Yes.”

“So. Safe drive.” Quatre stepped away.

He couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t leave the wrong thing lingering. In the end, all he could do was nod. He closed himself into the truck, and wrenched it into gear.

Quatre started back to the house before Zechs made it to the drive. He left deep footprints in the snow as he trudged back to the house. Zechs slowed to watch him go inside. His insides felt too heavy. He turned resolutely to the path, and accelerated.

But almost immediately he had to heed his brakes. It was Rhis’s jeep, rumbling around the curve of the drive. Rhis stared at him as their vehicles passed. Zechs, in character as the visiting city friend, waved a hand at him. Rhis didn’t return the gesture.

It was a decidedly shitty way to start the day, all told.

 

**

 

He was met at Manchester Airport by an agent in plainclothes. She followed Zechs through the ticket counter, and sat with him in the first café they passed.

“The nephew’s room is cleaned out,” she said.

“Anything for Forensics?”

“Completely clean.” A server brought the coffees he’d ordered. “Professionally done.”

“Then it’s a kidnapping.” Zechs found a stirrer in the cup of additives, and doused the foam with sugar. “Do we have any idea who’s behind it?”

“It has to be the Colonials.”

“How? None of them are here.”

“No. We have no record of any Colonials being on-planet right now.”

Not that they needed to be planet-side to cause trouble. But generally the Preventers knew who the sympathisers were, and they were watched. Zechs didn’t like the idea that might be an unknown factor. There was no way to prepare for the unknown.

They called first-class boarding for his flight. Zechs sipped his coffee quickly. “What else do we know?”

“Eighteen sightings of blond-haired boys in both Charles-de-Gaulle and Orly. Sixty from train depots. We’re working on them.”

“Nothing promising?”

The agent paused significantly. “We don’t know why, or what motivated it. But the Gundam Pilots, Barton and Chang. They’ve been talking. Chang left Jingmen to meet him in Buenos Aeries.”

He could not have been more shocked than he was by that. “When?”

“Last week.” At his impatient gesture, she elaborated, “Nine days ago. Chang’s passport triggered our alerts, but we didn’t know he was going to Barton until one of our people spotted them together.”

“It’s at least possible that–“ That it was innocent. Quatre’s ‘death’ had been so public. Maybe it had made them introspective. Maybe they’d come to regret their long distance from an old friend. Brought the two who were left to reconnect.

But it wasn’t his job to hope.

“The kid isn’t with them,” the agent added. “Not that anyone’s seen.”

“It’s still enough to pull them in for questions, I would think.”

“Not according to the Director. Une says watch longer, see what they do.”

“And what do they do?”

“Talk. Drink. They’re out in restaurants or coffee shops all day.”

Being seen. Waiting. Zechs said, “We need to talk to them. I’ll get the go-ahead from Une asap.”

“I can give the South American HQ the heads-up. They’ll be ready for the call.”

“We failed on this,” he said heavily. “We need to step up.”

“That’s what we do.” She put the plastic lid on her cup and stood. “Safe flight, sir.”


	16. Sixteen

Chang and Barton looked entirely too innocent.

The video feed was as smooth as anyone could have wished, the delay miniscule. The Buenos Aires agents who set it up were at their ease, unfamiliar with the two unimposing-seeming men in their captivity, and therefore decidedly dismissive of the repeated cautions Zechs had made. But it certainly didn’t look like either of the men planned on resisting so much as uncomfortable chair. They waited politely while the camera and audio connection was made, Barton sipping a cool soda, Chang picking at a ragged fingernail.

It convinced Zechs beyond all other evidence that they knew what had happened to Quatre’s nephew— if they hadn’t arranged it themselves.

‘Recording,’ Zechs, thousands of miles away in Sanq, said, and clicked his mouse over the computer icon. ‘19 December 209. Interrogation of—‘

 _‘Interrogation?’_ Barton interrupted. _‘I thought we were just here to answer a few questions.’_

‘Of Pilots 03, alias Trowa Barton, and Pilot 05, Chang Wufei.’

 _’03?’_ Barton again, this time amused. He glanced as his companion with both brows raised. _‘I think I’ve lost a few years somewhere.’_

Zechs let that pass, for the moment. Une, beyond the range of the camera, was silent as a ghost, hidden by chance and shadow from the bright overhead lamp. Beito was just as quiet, at Zechs’ elbow, their quickly compiled list of questions between them. The Department of Justice specialist was on hand to observe only, but his eyes were sharp, and he was drinking in details. Zechs had once travelled to Siberia with Barton, then only fifteen years old, with a mistrusting gaze and the amazing reflexes of someone whose entire life was destined for the cockpit of the greatest machine ever designed. Chang, Zechs had never met, and had in fact avoided meeting, in those early days of Preventers; Chang had avoided him just as assiduously. Treize’s death would always lie between them, no matter how many years passed. And though they were older now, though they were almost strangers now, Zechs agreed; it was like no time at all had passed. It was a strange thing to feel. When he looked at Quatre, Zechs almost never saw a Gundam Pilot. When he looked at these two, his mind had not seen anything else.

He said, ‘Why South America?’

Barton, a third time. _‘I travel. A hazard of the job. I have a few weeks here. Wufei had the time to join me.’_

‘Job.’

It was only a trick of the light, but Barton’s eyes, half-hidden all these years later behind that dark wall of hair, seemed to glitter.

 _‘Insurance,’_ he said blandly.

‘You’re a hired killer,’ Zechs corrected coolly.

 _‘You’d be amazed how many times I’ve been accused of something so heinous.’_ Barton wasn’t the least perturbed. _‘Of course, those accusations never stick.’_

‘Of course.’ Zechs shifted his papers to the copy of Barton’s last known flight, all very proper and lawful, from L1 to Ezeiza Shuttleport. ‘How long did you wait for your travel visa to be approved?’

_‘I have a friend at the Home Office. She pushed it through in under a month. It’s a personal record.’_

‘Who’s your client?’

 _‘Aren’t you supposed to respect client confidentiality agreements?’_ Barton asked archly.

‘I think we’re both sufficiently aware that there’s no law protecting confidentiality if that confidentiality is only in place to hide criminal activity.’ Zechs pushed a little harder. ‘Or is there even a client? A man with a friend at the Home Office to push through a visa application can falsify a business license just as easily.’

_‘You have an active imagination, Agent Merquise.’_

There was just the faintest stress on the oh-so-correct title. He didn’t even have to know what subtle hint it was meant to be; it raised the hair on the back of his neck, paranoia in plenty, old, dull anger summoned from the ancient past.

He forced a small smile, and turned his eyes to Chang. Of the two, Chang had aged more visibly, long lines drawn about his mouth, his receding hairline particularly visible with his harsh pigtail. ‘05,’ he said, deliberately. ‘From the defunct Long Clan on— forgive me, I can never recall. Which colony?’

The faintest hint of irritation pursed Chang’s thin lips. _‘A0206.’_

‘Yes, now I remember.’ It might have been cheap, but it showed there were cracks in the united façade they presented. Zechs took it. ‘I suppose the University of Beijing gave you leave?’ he asked.

 _‘I’m on sabbatical,’_ Chang answered. He spoke English like someone who wasn’t much used to the way the words formed on his tongue, as if it left him with an unpleasant aftertaste— though perhaps it was just Zechs who did that. _‘A semester for research. I’d be happy to discuss the intracacies of Mongolian political development, but I sincerely doubt you have the requisite knowledge of history.’_

Beito wrote a note and slid it toward Zechs. He didn’t need to read it to know what it said. They were guilty as sin, all right— but they hadn’t taken Søren. They were the distraction. And they would waste his time until the sun came up in the West while someone else— while someone else—

Zechs casually pushed his queue of questions aside. ‘No Mongolian, I’m afraid,’ he said. The sudden change of his tone captured a flicker of an eyelid from Chang. Barton was impossible to read, face blank as stone. ‘I’ve never been much for languages. Quatre was a quicker study than I am.’

To his left, Une shifted in her seat.

‘That’s how he approached us,’ Zechs added. ‘He learned enough Sanquian to tell us he wanted to defect. Desperate people take desperate measures.’

They didn’t yet believe him. Zechs hesitated, unsure which of them to focus on, unsure what to reveal, what to keep quiet. They didn’t trust him, they weren’t going to trust him; even if he told them the absolute truth they wouldn’t rely on it. They expected him to lie, sat there secure in their self-righteousness— why now? Six damn months too late, and Barton dared to stare back at him with that smirk hovering behind the mild mask, Chang as if the entire exercise was beneath his ponderous dignity.

‘I can’t tell you how much I wished we could have helped him before it came to that,’ Zechs said. ‘There’s some who think Quatre was murdered. I think it’s hard to say. He was so desperate to get out. You see, that’s what happens, when there’s no-one to turn to. No-one who remembers you used to be a good person, no-one who believes you’re being coerced. Or maybe I’m giving you too much credit. Maybe you just didn’t think about him at all. Do you regret it?’ He paused. ‘Do you regret letting him die alone?’

Barton’s jaw had clenched, but his control was too good to slip at such obvious provocation. Chang held his gaze, but he had to fight to keep it level.

‘I don’t have any more questions for them,’ Zechs said. He pushed his chair back and stood. ‘They’re a decade too late to be relevant.’

 

**

 

‘I don’t know if you’re smarter than I thought or if you wasted a good opportunity in there,’ Sally said.

‘Let’s hope it’s the former.’ Zechs rubbed the back of his skull. He hadn’t precisely had high hopes for the interview, but he felt horribly let down, even so. Chang and Barton didn’t have that internal— earnestness, the honesty, that had drawn him so much to Quatre. They were hollow men.

Beito was watching the recording on his screen, his chin mashed to a fist in his concentration. But soon he sighed and turned it off. ‘I don’t blame you. They were making it too easy. They didn’t have anything to reveal, or nothing we would get out of them, anyway.’

‘Which means we have to determine why they were being so obvious about their movements,’ Une completed.

Noin heaved out a deep breath. ‘Just a theory,’ she said. ‘Do we have a last-known-location for Duo Maxwell and Heero Yuy?’

That got every pair of eyes in the room. Zechs sat forward, energised for the first time in hours. ‘You think they’re all involved in this?’

‘I think we should at least think about it. I mean, look at the evidence. The nephew’s room was wiped clean. Both Maxwell and Yuy have the know-how and the finesse to do that, and to get a teenager out of a place swarming with Preventers unnoticed. The kid said he was getting calls, calls from someone pretending to be you, Zechs, which means someone who was either watching long before there was anything to see, or someone who had enough knowledge to anticipate that we’d get involved with Søren, and that Zechs would be the agent in charge. And there’s the simple fact of Chang and Barton. Why only two of them when there’s really four?’

Zechs started shaking his head at that. ‘I asked Quatre about the other pilots once. He said he didn’t know where Yuy and Maxwell had disappeared to. He wouldn’t lie about it.’

‘Maybe he didn’t,’ Beito supplied. ‘Just because Quatre didn’t know doesn’t mean the others didn’t keep in touch. Maybe there was some kind of signal, pre-arranged. Did Quatre say if he tried to find any of them ever?’

‘No,’ he reluctantly admitted. ‘And I didn’t ever think to ask that.’ Too, thinking of the way he’d watched Quatre _accept_ his new life, _accept_ that he was going to let Zechs go and it would be over, he wondered for the first time just how much practise Quatre had at accepting things. Had he been a victim of his own nature, letting them go just because he thought he needed to?

‘I just think maybe we ought to put some resources toward tracking the other two,’ Noin repeated.

‘I agree, in principle,’ Une said. She surrendered her seat to Sally and refilled her tea from Beito’s little electric kettle. ‘Realistically, we don’t have those resources to allocate. That trail is beyond cold.’

‘Not if we assume they’re the ones who took Søren.’ Zechs put his elbows to his knees. ‘What did they think they were gaining out of that? We assumed the motive was either silencing the boy, or trying to use him to find Quatre—except that Søren doesn’t know where Quatre is. But if you were Maxwell or Yuy, if you were calling Søren to _tell_ him that Quatre’s alive, then why take him with you? He’s not going to move as fast or as quietly, he doesn’t know anything of value…’

‘You take him before someone else does.’ Beito’s palm flattened on his desk. Zechs nodded. ‘It fits,’ he agreed.

‘If,’ Une emphasised. ‘It’s all a pile of “if”.’

‘But it’s a start,’ Noin said. ‘Except that it brings us right back to the start. We still don’t know where they’d take him.’

‘Barton and Chang came out into the open,’ Beito said. ‘I know I don’t have the same familiarity with them that all of you do, but I have to tell you, I don’t think they’d risk that for something as small potatoes as covering the kidnapping. Let’s remember they’ve had six months since Quatre’s “death” to pull this together, to make contacts, to talk to the right people. We’ve suspected there’s a leak. If there is, there’s no room to assume it wasn’t to the Gundam Pilots. If they know where Quatre is, or even suspect they know, then I say I think that’s what the sudden push is.’

‘Unless they just want us to think that.’ Une waved a hand in frustration. ‘Unless they’re just waiting for us to panic and lead them right to Quatre. It saves them from a lot of leg work.’

She wasn’t the only one to think that. Une and Zechs and Noin had all been Oz, had all once been deadly opposed to the same young men they were now discussing. Back in those days, when it had seemed the Gundams had an uncanny ability to show up where least expected, to achieve the impossible, to escape every trap and every ambush, only Treize had never second-guessed himself. But none of them were as brilliant as Treize had been. Zechs had to wonder what his old friend would have thought of their current predicament. Treize would at least have known what to do.

‘There’s a point past which speculation doesn’t do any good,’ Sally said finally. Her thoughtful expression settled into one that said she’d made her own conclusions, and was ready to act. Zechs found himself straightening in anticipation; they’d been a team for more than long enough to recognise all the sub-conscious signs. His gut knew, and he was in agreement before she even spoke it aloud.

‘First step,’ she said. ‘We need to get watchers on Quatre, and we need to do it from a distance. Second step, Breixo, I’d sure like to see you rev up the distraction exercises.’

‘I’ll have every blond in the Department of Justice on the street in an hour,’ Beito promised.

‘And Preventer,’ Une added. Beito was already nodding his approval. He picked up his phone and dialed immediately.

‘Third step,’ Zechs said. ‘We get agents on Barton and Chang. They may be the red herrings in the mix, but these are Gundam Pilots. Now that things are moving, they won’t sit on their hands forever. They know we know. They’ll disappear the second we let them out holding.’

‘I’ll tell the Buenos Aires chief to keep them as long as possible,’ Noin said, and left the room, her mobile already to her ear. ‘If they want to play decoy, let ‘em. I’ll have every mid-level agent I can find asking questions all night—this is Noin, Sanq Headquarters—‘

‘Fourth step,’ Une said. ‘I want every satellite in the sky aimed at the Federated Colonies. I don’t discount them from this. If the Pilots were trying to pre-empt someone else’s attack, I’d lay high odds it was the Colonials they suspected.’

It all came back to the Colonials. They still didn’t know what the motive had been for the pomp and circumstance of the service last month, the stolen memorial, the rush to land on Earth that seemed to accomplish nothing. Seemed.

Zechs didn’t yet allow himself to worry that they could contain any potential disaster, but it sat in the back of his mind, right by that growing headache. He never had liked deviating from the script.


	17. Seventeen

‘Three tickets,’ Maxwell said, and slipped his credit card through the window.

‘The ten o’clock or the twelve-forty-five?’ Keys clacked as the attendant opened the order. Maxwell took a timetable from the basket, but it went into his pocket unopened. His jaw flexed as he chewed a ragged lock of his short hair.

‘Ten,’ he answered cheerfully. ‘No offence to your lovely coach depot.’

The tickets printed. The attendant passed them and the credit card, with the flat look of the very un-amused. ‘Have a safe trip, sir,’ she said coolly.

‘Cheers.’ He pulled a duffle over his shoulder and turned away from the counter. Yuy was only a few yards away, staring at the quick-moving crowds going through turn stiles to the underground subway. He carried a bag, too, but his hand was free to rest lightly on the shoulder of the boy standing next to him. Maxwell reached for the boy’s cap and pulled it low with a teasing tweak.

‘Chin up,’ he said. ‘All’s well so far.’

‘So far,’ Søren repeated.

‘You hungry? We’ve got time for a tea. I’ll get you a packet of crisps.’

Søren sighed. ‘Yes, sir.’ At Yuy’s gesture, he tugged the upturned collar of his jacket higher to hide his face. Maxwell led them to the turn stiles, and together the three of them descended the stairs.

‘That’s all of it,’ Beito said. ‘We checked the sublevel cameras, but there’s just a few glimpses, and we already know which coach they boarded. They would have started at the airport, or at the least at the ferry from France. We’re watching the credit card Maxwell used, but so far there’s no new hits, and there’s no back-track on it at all.’

‘Mind games,’ Zechs muttered, disgusted. Frustrated. It was not a particular deep game the Pilots were playing, either. Neither Maxwell nor Yuy had attempted to disguise their appearance, beyond that Maxwell had cut his hair at some point in history. He had used a credit card because he could, because the Preventers would have to take the time to look into it. They’d let Søren be seen, let it be seen he wasn’t under duress, knowing Preventers would still be coming after them. And let their trail be seen, because they could afford to. Even if Preventers had finally managed to close the gap, they were still six hours behind. In six hours the world could have ended, and Preventers wouldn’t know it yet.

‘This is balls!’ Beito suddenly exclaimed. ‘They don’t know where Quatre is, or they’d be there. What the hell is the point of wandering around waiting for coaches otherwise? I say I call an extraction team and we move Quatre underground immediately.’

‘And risk exposing the entire operation to whoever’s watching the Pilots beside us.’ Sally rubbed her neck tiredly. ‘I say we give it up. This is their round. All we can do is follow them and quit bitching about it. They’ll make a real move eventually.’

‘At least it’s familiar.’

Both Sally and Beito looked at him. ‘The war,’ Zechs clarified. ‘If I’m honest, the Resistance was a step ahead of Oz at every turn.’

‘It wasn’t quite that much a lead,’ Sally said. A smile slowly tugged her lips up. ‘God knows we tried, though.’

‘Even Treize admitted it. He always said—‘ Beito was watching him curiously. Zechs pursed his lips, wondering, too late, if he ought to have learned a little something about Beito’s old loyalties before raising this particular topic. But just as quickly he dismissed the idea. The war was a decade old. The only sides that mattered these days were Earth-Sphere and Colonial. ‘Always said that if the Resistance had been his real enemy, he might have lost the war. As it was, he never believed that Oz and the Gundams couldn’t be accidental allies.’

‘I think Treize was fighting an entirely different war in his head,’ Sally said drily. ‘The one I was in had plenty of good guys and plenty more bad guys, and there was nothing accidental about it.’

‘The misunderstanding was a part of the tragedy,’ Zechs returned. ‘And if I’d figured that out sooner myself, I wouldn’t have done what I did.’

‘I hate to interrupt the reminiscing.’ Beito pointed to their screen. ‘If you can tie it back to these two men and the pair we’ve got sitting in prison in Buenos Aires, I’m happy to hear it. If not, we still need a plan. I’ve got as many men in Hope as that little town can handle without it looking suspicious. I can extract Quatre without noise. Every second we delay a decision because we’re feeling outfoxed is another second toward _actually_ having no options.’

‘Excuse me.’

It was Une. Zechs, the only one with his back to the door, turned to look. It was late at night, now; Headquarters were almost empty, a sight he was becoming quite familiar with, since they’d rescued Quatre six months earlier. They were all showing the strain—Zechs hadn’t had time for a shower since that morning at Quatre’s home in Wales, and Noin had only allowed herself to go down for a nap after she’d been so dizzy she’d stumbled into a chair. Sally and Beito had been swilling coffee for so long they were both jittery.

Une in particular looked exhausted, though. Her always-immaculate hair was limp, and the bags under her eyes were startling. It was her duty to explain their mistakes to the President, and Zechs could only guess it had been neither easy to do nor easy to swallow. Preventers was Une’s child of labour and love. She would protect what she considered her mentor and her lover’s legacy until her dying breath, and she took any threat to that as a personal attack.

‘Sit down,’ Sally was saying, already rising. Beito turned to the coffee pot, but Une waved them both off.

‘Let me guess,’ Zechs interrupted. He had a sinking feeling he could anticipate exactly what was coming.

‘The President would prefer I step down from this,’ Une said quietly.

Their protests drowned out her attempt to finish her sentence. Zechs was silent, but only because he knew, because he knew Une, that she had already agreed to recuse herself.

‘I will not jeopardise our investigation,’ Une finally said, raising her voice enough to be heard. ‘If that means letting a deputy take the helm, I can suffer through it. It’s a political reality sometimes.’

‘Deputy,’ Sally spat. ‘Your _deputy_ is a state-appointed bureaucrat. Hoskins was never supposed to be anything but budget oversight.’

‘Be that as it may, I’m scheduled to brief him in the morning.’

‘Morning?’ Beito wore an expression of disbelief. ‘In a real hurry, isn’t he?’

‘Mr Hoskins was on holiday in southern Sanq.’ Une enunciated each word precisely. Then, her hand clenched to a fist, she suddenly ripped her tie loose from her neck. ‘Damn it,’ she said, and nothing more. Her eyes closed in intense concentration; not a single readable emotion reached her face.

It was still awkward, as they each struggled to pretend they hadn’t noticed even that tiny lapse. Beito finally poured the coffee, but hesitated in giving it to her. Sally stood with her eyes on the floor.

Zechs drew a deep breath. It had been forming at the back of his mind when Une had interrupted, but the pieces were coming together now—mostly. He had a wild sense of the perfection of the plan, and there was no surer sign than overconfidence that he could be horribly wrong. But it was as Beito had said. You only ran out of options when you stopped trying to think of any.

‘Then we have until morning to turn this to our advantage,’ he said. ‘Hoskins won’t have anything to take over if there’s not a problem.’

Une shook her head slightly. ‘I appreciate your loyalty. But if there is a solution to this, you’ll be reporting it to Deputy Hoskins, not me.’

‘Regrettably, the Deputy isn’t here yet.’ He stood. ‘So either I hold my report until morning or you come back on duty to hear it, Commander.’

She looked him full in the face, her eyes narrowed at his challenge. ‘My career can survive an embarrassment,’ she said finally. ‘But not a humiliation.’

‘Trust me,’ he replied simply. ‘We’re about to get ourselves a couple of accidental allies.’

 

**

 

Chang looked outright grumpy from lack of sleep. Barton had the frayed irritation of someone kept up far past his bedtime. The Argentinian Preventers had followed Noin’s instructions to the letter, questioning the Pilots through all hours without rest. Zechs had absolutely no sympathy for either of them; he was riding the dregs of his own energy, now equally composed of caffeine and desperation. He mistyped twice before he managed to password-protect the recording of their video-link.

 _‘I thought we weren’t relevant anymore,’_ Barton sneered at him. _‘Or maybe you just thought of a particularly witty cut-down you forgot to use last time—‘_

‘Shut up,’ Zechs said. ‘And listen closely, because I don’t have time to repeat myself, and I don’t particularly like you enough to try. You were right. Quatre’s alive, and we’ve been hiding him.’

He’d succeeded in getting the drop on them. Barton was caught with his mouth open. Chang sat forward, suddenly sharp-eyed. So they hadn’t really known, not for sure.

 _‘What happened to “he died”?’_ Chang snapped.

‘He did. In the dark of the morning. He took pills that we gave him. He went to sleep. He was lying on the carpet on his back, and all he could do was trust us. He didn’t really know if we’d be able to help him, he didn’t know if he had really ensured that his family were safe without him. He didn’t really know that he would wake up again. He died, alone, and when we revived him the next day he wasn’t Quatre Winner anymore.’

He knew, better than either of these two men. He had lived through his own death, too, after all; he remembered waking to realise that Zechs Merquise, that Milliardo Peacecraft had, for all intents, ceased to exist. He remembered the relief he’d felt. He remembered how quickly the relief had drained out of him, until all he could feel was a numb shock.

‘That’s as close as we ever come to death,’ he said. ‘And damn you both for abandoning him to it. But lucky you—you get a second chance. You can stop trying to play us for fools, and you can do what you should have done in the first place. Help him.’

 _‘You don’t know anything,’_ Barton retorted. His lips were white from the pressure of pressing together. _‘You don’t know why—‘_

‘I don’t have to,’ he interrupted. ‘I don’t want to. Yes or no, gentlemen. I don’t have time to waste on you.’

_‘No!’_

Chang gave in first. _‘Yes,’_ he said.

Barton glanced at his companion. There was a kind of bewildered intensity building in him, and Zechs could almost pity it. Almost.

 _‘Yes,’_ Barton finally agreed, voiceless. His hands were fists on the tabletop.

Une came into the range of the camera. Zechs shifted to his left so she could join him at their own table, looking up at the screen of the two Pilots, two old enemies. She inclined her head ever so slightly to them.

‘Maxwell and Yuy have taken Quatre’s nephew with them,’ she said. ‘Fine. That’s done. You need to tell us why, so we know who we’re fighting now. The longer we’re in informational black-out, the worse it will be for Quatre.’

Chang’s fingers rested for a light touch on Barton’s arm. He was the one who spoke, his composure in place again. He met their gaze honestly. _‘The Colonials,’_ he answered. _‘Right before the announcement there would be an inquest, they put a watcher on the boy’s school.’_

‘Do you know who?’

 _‘Pierre Bauds.’_ Barton exhaled between pursed lips. _‘He’s a flight steward. Lives on Earth. But his wife’s sister was married to a colonist who died during the war.’_

It was exactly the kind of thing that slipped under the radar. Preventers would have vetted anyone going near the Space ports, but it was exactly the kind of thing that was easy to miss.

‘What did Bauds do?’ Une asked. ‘Who was he reporting to?’

 _‘Does it matter?’_ Chang said. _‘He was there and he was watching. And talking to others. Duo followed him to a meeting with a man who had a strong L2 accent. That’s not something you hear much on Earth.’_

‘So there’s a network.’ Zechs dug the point of his pen into his paper pad, his thoughts swirling. ‘And who knows how long it’s been forming. According to Quatre, Benat’s been building toward war for years.’

_‘He’s really alive?’_

Zechs looked up. Barton’s anxiety had reached a pitch, and his pupils were wide and dark, staring back at Zechs.

‘At least until the Colonists find him.’

_‘What do you want us to do?’_

‘Bring in Yuy and Maxwell,’ Une told him promptly. ‘Stop wandering around in full view with the boy. The Colonials can follow you at least as well as we can.’

 _‘I certainly expect so.’_ Chang’s condescension reasserted itself momentarily. _‘And once they’re in the open, we can follow them.’_

‘And what about Søren?’ Zechs pressed. ‘You think they won’t gun him down if the chance comes? Can you guarantee his protection?’

_‘He knows what we’ve asked of him.’_

‘He’s fifteen,’ Une protested.

 _‘So,’_ Chang retorted succinctly, _‘were we.’_

‘Selfish.’ Zechs found himself wiping his palms on his trousers, as if he could wipe off his sudden dislike of them. ‘He’s not Quatre. He’s not you. He’s a child. A child _you_ put in danger, because _you_ suddenly had to act. All the boy wants is his uncle back, and you lured him into the line of fire with promises you weren’t in a position to make, all so you could pursue some kind of vendetta?’

‘Zechs.’ Une did just what Chang had done, press her hand to his arm to calm him. ‘Bring in Maxwell and Yuy,’ she repeated. ‘Our first duty is to ensure that Quatre and his nephew are safe. When that’s done, we’ll be more than happy for your help in exposing the Colonials.’

Barton and Chang shared a long look. _‘On the strength of your word alone?’_ Chang mused.

‘On the strength of what we’ve already told you. You might be able to find him, eventually. Or you might slip, and his enemies will get there first. This is a choice with a clear answer.’

‘We’ll give you the location,’ Zechs said. ‘Hell. We’ll give you a ride. But you have to call Yuy and Maxwell out of the open first.’

 

**

 

Duo had the mobile to his ear before the first vibration had ended. ’02,’ he murmured to the receiver. Ahead of him, Heero’s head turned back, but he didn’t pause his careful pacing.

 _‘It’s me.’_ The voice was low, the greeting unadorned. _‘Change of plans. We have the location.’_

‘That’s ironic.’ Duo twisted his lips up in an unwilling smile. ‘Hey, Heero. They have the location.’

Heero glanced back again.

‘What? It’s funny.’

 _‘Duo?’_ Wufei, again, now sounding wary.

‘We sort of already know,’ Duo admitted. ‘It’s a long story. Well, not long, actually.’

_‘How?’_

The muzzle of a gun pushed into Duo’s back. ‘Hang the fuck up,’ Bauds snarled in his ear.

‘That’s how,’ Duo answered Wufei. ‘I’ll say hi to Quatre for you.’


	18. Eighteen

Beito placed the phone back in its cradle. 'I've got a team heading for Hope to get Quatre,' he reported. 'ETA is half an hour.'

'So long?' Noin fretted.

'It's enough time. They'll lay a false trail, as much as they're able. We'll get him out safely.'

'Assuming there's no-one already watching him directly,' Sally countered.

'If there were,' Beito said, 'I think we can assume that they'd have done something about it by now.'

Maybe they had. Zechs did not voice that. It had been the sole fear plaguing him since he'd heard Maxwell report that they'd been picked up as hostages by Pierre Bauds.

He did not understand why Maxwell and Yuy had allowed that to happen. It would have been child's play to two experienced men who had spent a decade outrunning anyone who might recognise them. The only explanation was that they, like Chang and Barton, hadn't expected Preventers to ever fold and invite them for cooperation. They'd thought their only path to Quatre was through his enemies. But the risk to Quatre, to Søren, was unconscionable. Zechs couldn't shake the feeling that Quatre was already in danger, maybe even-- he didn't give it a word, yet, but the feeling it grew in him was dreadful.

The hissing of the air vent above him brought a sudden chill, and he reached overhead to turn off the flow. Their airplane was a private jet on loan from Relena's royal set, capable of quick and relatively silent flight. They were set to land at the Hawarden Airport at almost the same time Beito's team would be extracting Quatre from his home just south of them. Zechs wished it could be he himself. The team would be whisking Quatre off to a hideout in Manchester, until they could board a private plane not much different from this one and get Quatre out of the country. Quatre would, at least, finally have his wish; he would have be relocated, now. And then, when that was done, Noin and Sally would head out to lead a cleanup crew. Their lone objective was to retrieve Quatre's nephew, with or without the Gundam Pilots who had made him a target. Søren might always be a target, now.

The wait was almost intolerable.

They taxied on the runway forever. Then they simply sat still, in the dark night, headlights low. The little airstrip was empty of other vehicles by presidential order. They weren't bothering with subtlety, now. Somewhere out there in the night an SUV was being brought to them, rolling right up to the plane. Zechs got the nod from their captain when it was time, and led the others down the stepladder into the frozen Welsh air. The car was still running, the keys in the ignition. Zechs gave the others just enough time to pull the doors closed behind them, and then he put his toe to the gas pedal.

Logically, being in a car and not knowing anything wasn't much different from being in a plane and not knowing anything, but at least he was moving.

 

**

 

Zechs waved Noin to the back. Beito followed her; Sally stayed at his heels, until she took a stance opposite him at the front door. He saw her nod, green and slightly hazy in his night-vision eye-piece. He returned the gesture and raised three fingers. He lowered them one after the other. When all he held aloft was a fist, Sally touched her mag-torch to the door frame. A moment later the door itself popped open, released from its lock, the creaking hinges silent under the raging wind. She entered first, gun locked between two steady hands, slipping effortlessly into the shadows.

Zechs came in just behind her, swing to the right to sweep the stairwell and the curtained smoking room. Both were empty, undisturbed. Sally gave him a nod again when he glanced for confirmation-- the sitting room was empty too. She went toward the kitchen, gliding smooth as a ghost through the quiet house. Zechs began up the stairs, clinging to the far wall for the sturdiest part of the old wooden steps. He cleared the guest room first, then the bath off the hall; Sally met him in time to take the master bed together.

All empty.

'Clear,' Sally murmured into her headset. 'Out-buildings?'

 _'Clear,'_ Beito reported, his voice both tense and warm in their earpieces. _'There's some kind of animals in here, though.'_

'More than one?' Zechs twitched aside Quatre's heavy bed curtains. The quilts were all nicely stacked at the foot, but there was a faint impression on the duvet, perhaps body-shaped, as if someone had rested there. 'He has a goat.'

A bark echoing across the comm line answered his query. Beito's agents hadn't leg him take the dog, then. Quatre would be furious. Zechs didn't have to be told to know that after the death of the other dog, Mie, Connah hadn't spent so much as a single moment alone, much less banished to the barn where his barking might go unnoticed.

He enjoyed the fantasy of Quatre's safety for only another minute. _'Zechs,'_ Noin whispered. _'We have two bodies.'_

 

**

 

'My men reported in!' Beito stubbornly maintained. 'They used proper protocol and they had all the right passcodes. Quatre is safe.'

'They didn't trouble to report two intruders they happened to shoot between the eyes,' Sally muttered.

Zechs heard them arguing, but as if from a great distance. He felt oddly insulated, isolated. Strangely calm about it. The two dead men lay sprawled over each other in the same corner where Zechs had buried Mie. The dirt was still disturbed where they'd been dragged there. Connah, freed from the chain, clung to Zechs' legs every time he made a pass through the crowd, but he wouldn't settle. He kept returning to the dead men to sniff and whine.

'We can go over and over this until dawn and it gets us no closer to Quatre,' Noin broke in. 'Two bodies is not an accident. Breixo, I'm sorry to ask, but do you trust the agents you had here?'

'Explicitly. They have impeccable records of service, absolutely immaculate loyalties. If they didn't report the bodies, then maybe the bodies happened after they removed Quatre.'

'What, these two came on an empty house and shot themselves in despair?'

'Or they had a third partner who took the news badly.' Noin glared Sally into silence. 'We don't know.'

And wouldn't, not until the dust settled. It would be hours if they were lucky. Forever, if his gut was right.

Connah hit his knees again, panting. He stayed, but he was shivering.

Zechs faced the others. To Beito, he said only, 'I want to see him.'

'No.' Beito had both hands up in defence of the immediate protests he received. 'No,' he repeated stubbornly. 'My men are quiet and invisible and most importantly they are so deep underground right now that moles couldn't dig them out, and that is procedure. I sympathise, Zechs, but I'm not taking one step out of line here.'

'The odds are high that Quatre knows something about these men. The odds are high that before they died they reported their position, and that by dawn this place will be swarming. We know they've got two Gundam pilots and a teenage boy as hostages. If we don't know what we're dealing with, we're going to be in a very tough spot. The second they realise we can't produce Quatre--'

'Won't produce.'

'Søren is dead. If I know nothing else, I know that Quatre won't agree that his life is so valuable that his flesh and blood had to die to keep him safe.'

'Call them,' Sally seconded. 'Come on, Brexio. Sometimes life is more than procedure. This is what we deal with in Preventers. If you can't make the right decision, you don't belong here.'

Beito broke with an explosive breath. 'Damn it. I'm calling.'

'Wait.' It was Noin, who wore a suddenly alert expression, her eyes sharp on the open barn doors. 'Did you hear that?'

They each froze in place. Even the dog went stiff and silent; then it began to growl, low and fierce.

'Tell it to stop,' Sally whispered.

'It was trained in Welsh.' Zechs grabbed for a collar, but the dog wasn't wearing one. He took a thick handful of coarse fur instead. 'Connah. Quiet.'

'There it was again,' Noin breathed. 'Someone's in the house.'

They were moving as one unit. It never occurred to Zechs to re-chain the dog, and he lost the chance to when Connah slithered free of his hold and sprinted over the snow in a mottled blur. They spread out in a fan toward the back door, and this time Beito and Noin split for the front of the house. A light had come on inside. Two lights. Zechs was reaching for the handle when the kitchen light came on next, and then the door flew open in his face.

Rhis cried out when Zechs presented the muzzle of his gun. Sally clapped her gloved hand over the young man's mouth, and they hustled him inside. Zechs shoved him against the granite counter and bent him face-down; Sally frisked him quickly, and came up shaking her head in a negative. Unarmed.

Rhis' eyes were the size of saucers when he turned. They went wider still when they landed on Zechs' face, unwisely revealed when he'd pulled off his dark mask in the barn. 'Daniel?' he gaped.

Zechs had no time to curse his slip. Noin and Beito hadn't responded to Sally's all-clear. Sally was repeating the call into her headset.

'Where's Gwyn?' Rhis was demanding. 'Who are-- you're-- are you some kind of-- Where's Gwyn? What have you done with him?'

'When was the last time you saw him?' Zechs interrupted. 'Exact time.'

'He was supposed to come to the pub for dinner. He never showed, so I--'

'The last time you saw him, Rhis, when was it?'

'This morning. When I left for work. We were--' Rhis' eyes flicked up. The bedroom over the kitchen. If he'd been a better agent, Zechs might not have felt a small gut twist. But he was a good enough agent to ignore it. 'Where is he? And who are you?'

'Noin, come in,' Sally repeated a fourth time. She touched Zechs on the elbow. 'We need to get out there.'

'Stay here,' Zechs told Rhis. 'If you move so much as an inch I'll break your ankles myself.'

The snowy yard in front was silent. There were deep footsteps where they'd come up on the house the first time, leading from the SUV where they'd parked out of sight. There were the footsteps coming round the side of the house, a deep gouge in the icy crust that was the only sign of a struggle-- and Connah, lying still and alone.

Zechs ran for the dog. It was alive-- the horrible clutch in his throat relaxed only when he felt a breath raise the animal's ribcage-- but it was unconscious, and didn't stir at his touch.

'Tyre tracks.' Sally pointed. 'Something's happened to them.'

'The snow's deep enough. We can follow them back to the road at least. Figure out which way--'

Their SUV was gone.

'God damn it.' Sally kicked at a large slate boulder. 'God damn it!'

'Rhis. He has a truck.' Zechs made a sprint back for the house, but thought better of it immediately. No-one ever stayed where they were told. He angled instead for the drive where Rhis had parked. He saw a form moving in the yard and put on an extra burst of speed, just in time to grab Rhis by the shoulders and slam him into the side of the cab. It knocked the wind out of them both, but Zechs fought through it, man-handling the slighter man about until he could grip him by the throat.

'We need it,' he grated, inches from Rhis' frightened face.

'Where's Gwyn?' Rhis fired back. 'What did you do to him?'

When he'd been just a cadet at the Victoria Academy, a lecturer had told him once that if he intended to be a leader, he would eventually be faced with a situation which would require him to make a split-second decision that would bring either disaster or victory. Naïve and young, he'd asked how he'd know which was which. The lecturer had only raised her eyebrows. You won't, she'd answered.

'We're Preventers,' he said. 'So give me the keys and get in the back and we'll fucking find him.'


	19. Nineteen

'There's no way Bauds got here before we did,' Sally said. She pulled her head in from leaning out the window and fumbled through her belt pack for fresh batteries for the faltering hand-torch she held. 'Not if they were on commercial flights, landing at Manchester, having to rent a vehicle--'

'Steal a vehicle.'

'It still puts him at least two hours behind us, which means Beito's people had to be the ones to get Quatre.'

'Who's Quatre?' Rhis interrupted them.

Zechs ignored him, as he'd ignored the last three questions Rhis had tried to ask since they'd commandeered his truck. He drove as slow as he could bear to, as fast as he dared without risking losing the tracks left by the SUV. It hadn't gone back toward town, but was keeping to the country roads. It argued for someone who knew their way about, or had a very detailed map. 'We know Bauds is working for the Colonials. He obviously had more contacts, maybe someone who was close enough to get here before us. But Beito said his men checked in and that they have Quatre safe.'

'Unless Beito lied.'

They shared grim silence, then. It took no imagination at all to know how that possibility would play out. There had been a leak; accepted. If it were as high in the ranks as Beito, who knew everything and indeed more than either Zechs or Sally... And if Beito were a traitor, that meant Noin, who was with him, was as good as dead. And so was Quatre.

'Stop,' Sally ordered. He braked immediately, and before he'd skidded to a halt she was out her door, dropping down into the snow. Rhis leant over the back of her seat, straining to see. He had to jump back again when Sally returned to the cab.

'The tracks are gone,' she told Zechs. 'They turn off into the field and then they're gone.'

'That's impossible,' he said flatly. 'What happened to the SUV?'

'I'm telling you it's not there.'

'They could have buried it.' Both the Preventers swung about to face Rhis, who stammered in the face of their stares. 'I-- that is--'

'No, tell us,' Sally urged. 'Buried it?'

'We used to do that to my mates at college. The snow gets high enough, you can drive it into a drift and bury it under the snow. It's a great prank.'

Zechs turned his eyes to his partner. Her expression told him what he already thought; if the SUV had been buried, they weren't likely to find it, not in the dark with only two hand-torches, even with an approximate idea of where to find it.

But then just as quickly something else occurred to him. 'Noin and Beito,' he said.

'They might still be in the car.' Sally grabbed her bag from the floor and slung it over her back, dropped her night-goggles over her face. 'Come on, Rhis, you're coming with us.' She slapped the front seat down and waved Rhis toward her. He clambered out awkwardly on his lanky limbs and slid to a stop in the deep crust of the road. 'Should we split up?' she asked Zechs.

He turned the car off so he could take the keys with him, the quickest precaution against someone stealing the truck, too. He locked the doors as he vacated, pulling his own goggles down and toggling them to heat-detection. Rhis lit up like a torch in his vision, but only a strip of Sally's face showed to him. That disappeared too when she zipped the hood of her stealth uniform up to her nose. Zechs remembered this time to follow her lead, watching for her nod of confirmation that he, too, was invisible to any sinister watching eyes. There was nothing to do about Rhis, however, except warn him he could be a target.

Sally explained it all to him in a calm low tone, her hand on his elbow. 'Agent Merquise and I are both wearing anti-detection gear,' she told him. His eyes were wide as he nodded. 'But you're not, which means that if anyone is still out here, they might see you. The good news is that they'll immediately know that because you're not protected, you're a civilian, and that's a pretty good assurance that they won't start shooting until they can confirm if there's one of us with you. So I want you to act as if you were out here alone. You'll use one of our torches. Don't try to stay with us, don't try to look for us. Just go out there looking for an SUV, buried or otherwise, okay? Listen for people trying to yell for help. We think two of our people may be still in it, unable to get out.'

To his credit, Rhis absorbed it all with admirable self-possession. 'And this will help find Gwyn?' he said then.

'The man who might be in the SUV is the only one who can get in contact with Gwyn.' Sally gave his arm a squeeze, and handed him her torch. 'You have to trust us now.'

Rhis led the way into the field. Sally followed next, and Zechs brought up the rear, popping the snap on his weapon holster and freeing for a quick draw. There was little enough to see, goggles or no. They climbed a low stone fence, and the ground rose sharply. Sally had been right; the tracks led up the hill, but disappeared. No-- they'd been brushed away. There was some disturbance, and the snow hadn't been falling fast enough to cover it yet. Zechs went left, Sally and Rhis went right.

Then suddenly Rhis broke into an awkward run, tripping his way through the knee-high drifts. Sally, the lightest of them all, managed somewhat better, and Zechs was able to use their footprints to speed his own passage. They caught Rhis up beside a chest-high mound.

'Too small,' Sally whispered.

'Not if there's a depression in the hill.' Rhis looked at neither of them, but began taking broad swipes at the mound, flinging thick bricks of ice aside. 'The tree hasn't got any snow on it. If they drove it up to the tree and shook down the branches, it would barely have taken five minutes.'

Rhis was right. Soon it was clear there was something solid under the white blanket. Rhis had gloves, but he had to work essentially alone, with both Zechs and Sally sweeping the perimetre for enemies; soon he was shivering, his teeth clacking audibly, but he worked in grim, uncomplaining silence, his body slowly glowing cooler in Zechs' heat-sensitive vision. When he struck the windscreen, he uttered a little cry of triumph, and climbed onto the hood of the vehicle to scrape at the frost with his fingers. Zechs tossed him a little knife from his belt, and Rhis scraped until he'd cleared a large enough hole to beam the torch through.

'There's people in there!' he called to them, his excitement carrying even through a frozen tongue. 'They're not moving!' He rapped hard on the glass, before Sally shushed him. 'I can try to clear through to the door—' he said, and scrambled off into the drift.

Sally was invisible to Zechs even in normal eyesight, the moonless night hiding her as effectively as her kit. He felt her near him, sliding her way back down the hill to him, the dim outline of her head all he could gather. But he knew what she would say. Zechs agreed. Rhis could probably eventually get to a door, and even open it wide enough for Noin and Beito to be pulled free, but that would waste up to an hour, maybe even more. Every minute wasted was a precious loss.

'We break the screen,' Sally decided quietly. 'Rhis. Rhis, listen up. Knock on the screen and see if you can get them to respond.'

'They're not moving.' Rhis' head swung back to them before he remembered not to look at them. 'Are they dead?'

'Sally, guard us.' Zechs tore open his gear and found the little hard peg of the glass breaker. 'Rhis, help me up.' He thrust out his hand. Rhis grabbed him by the wrist, and Zechs was hauled up through the loose skittering crumbs and onto the snowy hood. It was the front of the car, he saw, as if whoever had driven had backed into this spot by the tree. He didn't ponder it. He knelt as best he could, freed his arm from the strap of his back pack, and stabbed the breaker down onto the screen.

It shattered and caved in. Zechs kicked out the last hanging bits, and bent to peer in. His heart, already high in his throat, jumped a little more when he saw his two friends sprawled in the backseat. It was too dark to do more than distinguish their forms, outlined in the same dangerous blue as Rhis.

'I can crawl in,' Rhis said. 'Try to--'

No point in logistics. It would be difficult no matter what they did. 'Go,' Zechs answered.

It seemed to take forever. Rhis managed his way over the broken glass and snow and into the back seat. He was too chilled to feel for pulses. But it was indeed a man and a woman, and the woman had short hair, so that at least was answered. They wore handcuffs, which didn't aid their manoeuverability. Zechs edged as far into the SUV as he could, throwing his legs over the dash and planting one foot on the steering wheel for leverage. Rhis finally managed to push Noin's limp body at him between the front bucket seats, and Zechs grabbed her shoulders to pull her toward him. He almost dropped her when he felt her breath on his neck, faint but real. She was alive.

He laid her in the snow at Sally's feet and climbed back into the car for the second go. Beito was harder: he was a tall, well-built man, and his limp weight didn't move anywhere fast. The best that could be said was that if someone were watching them, they weren't taking the opportunity to make a move. It took them at least fifteen minutes to get Beito through the screen. Both he and Rhis were panting with the exertion, and Zechs had muscles shaking in his arms when they finally lowered Beito to the ground. Sally freed a hand from her glove to take pulses, while Zechs drank from his water bottle.

'Are they Preventers too?' Rhis asked him.

'Yes.' Zechs passed him the water. 'You all right?'

'Yes.' Rhis sipped, and his eyes slid up to Zechs'. 'Does Gwyn know who you are?'

'Gwyn...' But faced with the moment, he couldn't make that decision for Quatre. 'Gwyn has some baggage,' was all he said. 'It's possible he's in trouble. Sally, how are they?'

She had risked her own torch to study their friends. 'Noin's got no sign of trauma. Breixo's bleeding, I can't tell from where.'

The worst possible news. Zechs shook his numb hands to warm them and helped her with Beito. There was indeed blood, and when they'd stripped his uniform away from his chest, they finally traced it to a flesh wound in the shoulder. There was no exit wound in his back, but neither was it a bad enough bleed to account for his deep unconsciousness. He hadn't stirred at all during the manhandling, and if Noin had no injury at all, what could explain it? He couldn't think of any conventional weapon that would account for it, but there could certainly be something, something new or something black market, a weapon that could do this. 'Taser shock would have worn off by now. A sonic weapon, maybe?'

'It's a possibility,' Sally agreed. 'But do you smell that? It's almost like-- like--'

Rhis crouched by her side. 'Toasted almonds,' he supplied. 'You can smell it in the car too.'

'Almonds.' Zechs was baffled. 'What would make them scent like...'

Sally's head shot up. 'Like that CNS-inhibiting teargas we confiscated from the rebels in Jordan. It smelled like almonds.'

'Is there anything you can do for it?'

'It's supposed to have a limited affect. No more than an hour.'

'So if it was used to incapacitate them and get them into the SUV, they ought to wake soon.' If it had been used to keep them quiet right before whoever had taken them had buried the car, though, they could be out for another forty minutes. Another forty minutes for their enemies to get away with forty minutes of whatever information they'd taken out of Beito while shooting him.

Sally holstered her gun and pulled Noin upright by the arm, then set her shoulder to Noin's belly and stood, the other woman dangling over her shoulder. 'The two of you try to keep Beito level between you, the feet a little higher. I want to get them into the truck, get them warm. All we can do is wait this out.'

If not for what happened the very second she decided that, they might have been taken by surprise, or been bypassed completely and lost their chance. It was complete fate. Zechs was looking in the right direction for it: a flash of heat just caught at the edge of his goggles. He dropped Beito back to the snow without a second thought and dashed down the hill back to the little stone fence with its overhang of brittle hedge. He'd gone no more than three metres when the little flame he'd seen burst out into the night as a full-grown man, flaming red as a coat slipped to the ground behind him. Zechs fired a shot with no thought at all for who it might be; it hit, and the man stumbled, but for a quick scramble was back on his feet and running for the road. Zechs was right behind him, pumping his legs as fast as he ever had in his life, flying over the snow as if it didn't even exist. His second shot went wide, so he careened to a stop and took the time to aim. He took the man square in the back, right where he anticipated the spine plate of a kevlar vest to rest. The force of the bullet sent the man in a sprawl. This time he didn't get up.

Zechs made the approach with caution, though the pained wheezing he heard was real enough. The man lay face down until Zechs kicked him onto his back. Kevlar indeed, and a sleek helmet of the flex-shell that Colonials preferred. His identity was confirmed when Zechs pulled the helmet off by the chin strap, and the man swore at him with an L2 accent.

Zechs levelled his weapon at the colonist's head. 'Take me to Quatre Winner,' he said, flat and clear. 'This is not a negotiation.'

'Zechs!' Sally shouted. 'They're waking up!'

 

**

 

Wodobinski roused him with the bucket of water set under the ceiling drip. Quatre flinched and strained at his bonds.

Armand Benat said, 'I would very much like to not have to do that again.'

Quatre stared blankly at him.

'Come, my friend.' Benat's classic Oxford shoe landed in the puddle spreading from Quatre's chair. 'We've been playing this game for hours. I'm quite ready to bring it to a close.' His most gracious smile spread his lips, and then he tucked into a crouch beside Quatre, his hand resting gently over Quatre's wrist. 'It troubles me to cause you any pain. It troubles me that you apparently felt no like difficulty. I thought we were close, my dear. I made your sorrows mine.'

Quatre's mouth moved slowly, before the words could form. 'You made my sorrows,' he mumbled. His whisper echoed in the little basement, like the wind blowing outside. 'You killed my sister.'

'A professional embarrassment. I admit.' Benat was solicitous, then, shaking a kerchief from his pocket and wiping the water from Quatre's bruised face. 'A crude method. But, you'll note, effective.'

Zechs felt his blood burn. Beito gripped his arm. It was nothing to the grip Zechs had on his gun.

Quatre's eyes roamed without direction. Benat recalled him with another tender touch. 'Come, Quatre. These are friendly questions.'

'No friendly questions.' Quatre drew a deep breath. 'I told them everything I know.'

'But of course you did. They would hardly rescue you for less than your absolute worth.' It was Benat who breathed, then, in and out with great solemnity. He said, 'Will you give me the statements I need?'

Quatre's head fell back. 'I'll never give you anything you need ever again.'

Benat rose. He gave a single nod to Wodobinski. The woman's thin face was twisted in hatred. She stepped close and gripped Quatre by the hair, and then she set the cattle prod she held to his chest. Zechs closed his eyes as she shocked Quatre, but he still heard the choked groan, the stamp of the shaking chair on the concrete floor.

'Hold,' Beito breathed in his ear. 'We need him to say it. Quatre can take it.'

Quatre's ragged gasps were the only noise for several minutes. Then Benat spoke again. 'How many times do you think we can do that to you before we cause permanent harm? Even death?'

'Dead,' Quatre rasped, 'anyway.'

'It was always the plan for you, as I'm sure you determined long ago. You're essentially an honest man, my dear, and that's really very bad policy when you're trying to trick people into going to war with you. No, Quatre, I'm talking about a life I know you hold more precious than your own.'

Quatre's eyes came up wildly.

'He's a fine young man, your nephew. He's taken up the violin, you know. Even if he is too old for it, they say he's a remarkable talent.' Zechs risked a glance. Benat curved his hand to Quatre's sweating brow. 'Come now, Quatre. Don't make me go through with these base threats. It embarrasses us both.' He smoothed Quatre's hair. 'I even really believed you were dead, you know,' he said thoughtfully. 'I thought you'd finally done what you threatened so many times, taken your own life. You have no idea how delighted I was to learn otherwise. You can be quite pragmatic when the situation requires. I admire you for it. You very nearly had it all-- your family protected, you free from us. But this preposterous case in the Court. We really might have let you go if you hadn't gone running to the Court, Quatre.'

There was no struggle. There couldn't be. Zechs knew it, even as he mourned for Quatre, and the cost.

'I'll say anything,' Quatre answered soundlessly. 'Just leave Søren alone.'

Beito squeezed Zechs by the elbow. 'That's everything we need. Let's take the bastards down.'


	20. Twenty

When they burst out of their hiding place behind a half-closed door, three wonderful things happened all at once.

Noin, who had waked from her attack by the CNS-inhibiting gas madder than Zechs had ever seen her, beat him into the basement. Razel Wodobinski jumped back, her cattle prod in hand, and Noin took her out with a bullet to the hip before Zechs even saw the gun she carried.

Zechs himself had gone for Benat, and no-one tried to get in his way. The moment they appeared, Benat whirled about with shock; but just as quickly he recovered himself and surrendered, his hands held high and wide in the universal gesture. Zechs shoved him face-first into the wall, deeply and viciously satisfied with the man's pained grunt and enjoying, too, the sound of rough bricks scraping at skin when he rammed Benat's head to them.

Rhis broke free from Sally's hold and threw his arms about a dazed Quatre. In a frantic babble of Welsh Rhis gripped at him, until finally Quatre gave some soundless affirmative. Then Rhis kissed him fiercely, his hands tender and distraught on Quatre's neck.

Perhaps not all so wonderful. Zechs stared over his shoulder, his heart in his throat.

Noin cuffed the struggling Wodobinski and gave her a firm shove with her foot. 'Be quiet,' she snapped. 'Are we all clear?'

Beito reappeared from the front. 'All's clear,' he reported. 'Young man,' he told Rhis, 'if you've got a knife available, I think Gwyn would appreciate a little help getting free.'

'Gwyn,' Benat muttered, and Zechs muffled him immediately through the most expedient means-- a gloved hand over the offending mouth. With his point made, he secured cuffs about Benat's nearest wrist, and pulled his arm down to meet with the other. Rhis barely noticed. He attacked Quatre's bound wrists with determined slices at the leather tresses. He kissed the first freed palm, and Quatre touched his face. They sat like that for a moment, Rhis' head to Quatre's chest.

Quatre stared at nothing, expressionless. Shock, Zechs thought. Pain, perhaps.

'There's two dead in the house upstairs,' Beito said casually, and all eyes swung to him. 'That brings the tally of dead to four. So far.' Then, against all rules and regulations and even common sense, he lifted his mask and took it clear off, stuffing it into the crude sling he wore on his right arm. 'We have plenty to talk about, Minister.'

Zechs, still cramming Benat to the wall with the weight of his own body, could not help but see how Benat's eyes went wide then. 'You,' the colonist breathed.

'Me indeed.' Beito actually smiled. 'Not quite a pleasure, to finally meet you face to face, is it?'

'What are you talking about?' Sally demanded. 'How does he know you?'

'He's a traitor,' Benat spat, finally exerting himself, bucking at Zechs' hold. Zechs pressed him back with an elbow to the kidney, earning a grunt. 'Traitor,' Benat repeated. 'Do your friends here know--'

Sally was on her feet, her hand hovering over her holstered weapon. 'Breixo?' she said flatly. 'Is this true?'

'Oh, absolutely,' Beito answered calmly. 'The good Minister and his cohorts started fishing for an ally on my team almost as soon as we convened to bring Quatre Winner into Witness Protection.' His dark face turned a pacific smile to their gawking. 'I knew there was a leak. It didn't take much trouble to track it to two of my men, Russo and Saville. The two gentlemen received rather large deposits in their wives' bank accounts,' he added to Sally, still staring at him suspiciously. 'Very obvious, but people in that sort of situation often think they're safer than they are. But I imagine the Minister realised very quickly that they were too low-level to have any real information to share, and that's when they sent Pierre Bauds to bring me into the fold.'

Zechs felt sick to his stomach. Beito didn't have a weapon drawn yet, but his skin crawled anyway, wondering how many waited for them outside, anxious for the table to turn. 'What did they offer you?' he asked harshly. 'Money? Kickbacks?'

'No, I earn a comfortable living, and I have no ambitions the Minister was in a position to satisfy,' Beito replied courteously. He was still smiling, mild as a spring day, and it kept them all hesitating, Sally with her weapon still holstered, Noin subtly moving into position to shoot, and Zechs--

'Bauds brought me a parcel of pictures,' Beito said. 'My wife, my daughter, my grandchildren. Uncreative, but who can argue with efficiency?'

Abruptly Benat's shoulders relaxed. Zechs, surprised by it, almost loosed his hold, but Benat made no attempt to escape him. 'If you're done speechifying,' the Minister interrupted, 'get on with this and shoot them. We have business to complete.'

'I'm afraid not, Minister.' Beito raised his eyes to meet Zechs' gaze. 'I've run approximately two hundred of these operations in my career. And I wouldn't have got to this point if I took bribes and bowed to a little coercion. When you arrest them all, be sure to add the appropriate charges, and account for the deaths of my men. Russo and Saville might have been weak links, but they were still Department of Justice.'

'He's telling the truth,' a new voice confirmed. It was Quatre. As the Preventers rubbernecked to gawk at him, Quatre settled Rhis' jacket over his shoulders, his face pale but set. 'Breixo and Lady Une explained it to me before they located me here. I knew it was a risk something would happen eventually. I can vouch for him.'

Sally sucked in a deep breath. 'I want more explanation,' she said coldly. 'But let's start by getting these two secured and out of the room. Don't forget our friend in the truck, either.'

 

**

 

Zechs and Breixo worked in uneasy silence to clear the bodies of the dead couple whose house they were now taking over. They were elderly, their expressions locked into the final surprise and pain of their deaths. A team would have to be called to deal with them properly, and Zechs regretted that they could do nothing more at the present than close off the bedroom where they'd been killed, asleep in their own bed.

'You didn't anticipate this when you made your plan, did you?' Zechs asked, the only words he'd spoken to Breixo since the revelation that he had participated-- collaborated-- in some kind of conspiracy with the colonials.

'No,' Breixo answered, and in the dim light he did seem sad. 'No, I think we never can anticipate the civilian cost. Hope is too engrained.'

Noin and Sally had taken care of securing Benat, Wodobinski, and the man who had buried Beito and Noin in the SUV. Zechs radioed a cautiously coded message of success to their Command, but left as well the signal that not all was well yet and that he would observe silence until he knew more. He helped Noin rope the colonials into chairs much as they had done with Quatre, tying their hands to the arm rails with strips made from bedsheets, and stripping them of all clothing that might contain some method of communication or GPS locators. Wodobinski spat at him when he searched her hair for hidden devices, and he stonily ignored the provocation.

It was a relief to finally remove his mask, when they shut the door between the colonials and the little sitting room where Quatre had been firmly couched, despite grumpy protests that he was fine. Quatre's eyes widened a little at the sight of him, breaking him off mid-sentence. Zechs stood awkwardly until Noin bumped him from behind, and he recovered himself enough to finish setting up basic surveillance of the colonials' little closet. He slid a small wire-cam beneath the door and twisted it until it fixed on the occupants, who glared down at it as if it were a snake in the grass. He stayed in his crouch with the small viewscreen in hand, dividing his attention between their prisoners and the drama that was set to unfold when Beito finally explained himself.

It didn't start until Sally satisfied herself that Quatre was, in fact, alive and intact. Rhis would not be budged from his side, but quieted when Quatre pressed his hand. Zechs reluctantly admired the young man's bravery. It had been quite the night, for a man who hadn't known any of them existed.

'Now,' Sally said. 'Someone tell me everything, and do it in a hurry. We've still got Bauds out there with two Gundam pilots and the boy.'

Quatre's head came up quickly. 'What?'

'In a minute,' Noin put him off. 'Beito?'

'It's a long story,' Beito answered. He rubbed his wounded shoulder, but sat in an unoccupied chair with all evidence of relaxation. The Preventers, all of them trained to read body language as accurately as words could be interpreted, hovered in half-suspicious stances, not yet convinced but unwilling to provoke violence without the truth. Beito, who surely knew all that, deliberately met each pair of eyes with a guileless and honest look.

'It started as I said before,' he said. 'We knew the colonials hadn't been fooled by Quatre's apparent death. We knew there was a leak. I've run approximately two hundred operations in my career, and in almost forty percent we get at least approached for information. It's a high-risk business. Most of my people are honest, and they come to me. Russo and Saville didn't. We found them anyway.'

'Then why didn't you get rid of them immediately?' Noin asked.

'Because the leak you know is better than the one you don't. I fed them a few tidbits here and there, just enough truth mixed with misdirection to keep them useful to the colonials without revealing anything we couldn't afford to have known. And because Quatre's an intelligent and experienced man,' he said, and inclined his head to Quatre's inscrutable gaze, 'Une and I made a point of informing him of the game we were playing, with the warning that it might one day result in violence we couldn't control.'

'But Benat knew you,' Sally interrupted. 'He said you personally were a traitor.'

'Yes. As far as he knew, I was. Russo and Saville weren't placed highly enough to learn where we planned to relocate Quatre. They knew he was alive and they knew he was the most important witness, maybe even the lynchpin, in our case in the International Court. If they were going to bury the case, they needed to bury Quatre. So they went for broke. A man named Pierre Bauds, with whom we're all now familiar, approached me. As I said, he had photographs of my family, exactly what was done to Quatre. Unlike Quatre, however, I had resources to protect them. It's not the first time they've been threatened.'

'So you lied,' Zechs mused. 'You pretended to go along with them, but--'

'Shared the details with my superiors, and with Lady Une,' Beito finished. 'Again, we didn't know if anything would actually come of it. I arranged for Bauds to be selected as the pilot on a shuttle flight to L4, and he was able to launch with Armand Benat and Razel Wodobinski and bring them back to Earth, for that contrived little ceremony with the memorial. I'd been stringing things out with them, making demands, playing the game, but once they were on Earth I had to step it up. Une and I chose actors to replace the Minister and his staff, and we let the real Benat slip away with Bauds. Bauds split off to pick up Quatre's nephew, obviously to use him as a bargaining tool, but I believe the Gundam Pilots, completely unconnected to any of this, picked up on the increased activity and decided to move on their own.'

'Gundam pilots,' Quatre said. Beito nodded. Quatre sat tensely. 'What do they have to do with this?'

Zechs answered, and Quatre's head swung around to him. 'Barton and Chang appeared in Buenos Aires,' he said. 'They were the red herring. While we were occupied with them, Maxwell and Yuy picked up Søren. They wasted time parading him around--' Quatre stared at him as if he were screaming behind the tight pressed lips. Zechs swallowed dryly. 'Bauds got the drop on them. He seems to know where you are. Seems to be headed here.'

'Seems to be.'

Beito gently recaptured Quatre's attention. 'I'm sure he does. The two men who were killed at your home were my men. Saville and Russo. I admit that they were never supposed to move you.' He apologised mutely to the Preventers. Zechs, who had already assumed that when Benat had revealed he knew Beito, still found he felt betrayed. It wasn't enough that Une had known, that Beito had been balancing a delicate operation without being able to inform agents who had become friends. It wasn't enough that this was the kind of thing Preventers were trained to accept without comment. They'd endangered Quatre, endangered Søren by their deceptions, whether it had succeeded in netting the colonials or not.

'No,' Quatre said softly. 'No, they came in from the back... I heard them but I thought-- I shot at them. I think I hit one of them. I don't know. They gassed me with something. When I woke, I was here.'

'They would have radioed their location to Benat and Wodobinski, as soon as they had the privacy for it,' Beito completed. 'I'm sure they expected to be rewarded.'

'It probably wasn't Benat who killed them,' Noin observed. 'He's slick. He'd have had Wodobinski do it, the way he let her hold the prod. He's keeping his hands clean.'

'He's still accessory,' Zechs insisted.

'But it might not be enough to--'

'Where did you get a gun?' Sally broke in.

Quatre raised his chin. 'I know I wasn't supposed to have it. I asked Rhis to buy me one, quietly. He never knew why I wanted it. I didn't want to risk him becoming involved, but I knew something was happening when my dog was killed. Dogs don't go out into snow storms. They lured her out, or maybe killed her as a message to me. I knew they were near.'

Rhis licked his lips, intimidated by the glowers that turned on him. It was no longer he who sheltered Quatre, but Quatre who protected him, with a hand laid over Rhis', a defiant hard set to his face daring the Preventers to punish either of them. No-one rose to the challenge.

Zechs checked his screen. Benat sat with his head back, eyes closed, unresisting. Wodobinski shifted frequently, but he thought it was the wound to her hip, not a real struggle to free herself. But the third man, the one Zechs had captured by the buried car, wriggled at his bonds in earnest. Zechs watched as he managed to tip himself over, but the man couldn't do more than hang from the chair with his face in the carpet. 'One more thing, then,' Zechs murmured, glancing up at Beito. 'Who took you and Noin from the house?'

'He didn't seem to know who we were,' Noin said. She frowned at Beito. 'I thought, anyway. Another lie?'

'No,' Beito replied promptly. 'No, and this is the part I think we all need to discuss very carefully. If he's connected to Benat and this mess, I'll eat my left shoe. I've never turned up his face in any of our checks.'

'That dog was out, running for something in the dark. I went after it, and the doors of the SUV were open, and I knew we'd left them closed. I was about to radio when he grabbed me from behind.' Noin rubbed at the fingers of her fist, her voice subdued with shame at being caught unawares. 'He whispered in my ear-- Where is Quatre Winner? When I wouldn't answer, he gassed me, just like Qu--' She hesitated. 'Like Gwyn said.'

'And he didn't seem to know me from Adam,' Beito added. 'Which again suggests he's not connected with Benat. Why send a stranger to meet me? Especially after executing two handy conspirators who were already in his pocket? I'm telling you, I think this man is something else entirely.'

'Gwyn,' Zechs said. He held up his screen. 'Maybe you can identify him.'

Rhis mumbled something in Welsh. Quatre's hand gripped him tighter, something reluctant and weary passing over his eyes.

'I'll tell you,' Quatre answered him. 'I promise. But I have to go do this now, _cariad_.' He waited, Zechs thought with something like compassion, for Rhis to gather himself and let go first. When he did, Quatre rose, pulling the oversized jacket tight over his chest again, and he walked with stately steps to where Zechs sat by the far wall. Zechs raised the screen as much as he could, and Quatre knelt by him to look.

'Allah,' Quatre swore. His eyes swooped closed. 'Let him go. Zechs, please, go let him loose. He's just--'

'Who is he?'

'Maħmūd bin Rashid,' Quatre said. 'Damn it. Let him go. He's a friend. A misguided, idiotic-- idiotic--' His lips pressed tight together, jaw locked, and for a moment Zechs feared for him. 'Let him go,' Quatre repeated. 'His father will murder me if anything happens to Maħmūd.'


	21. Twenty-One

'Wait a minute,' Noin said. 'Bin who? How do you know him?'

'He's the son of my oldest friend. I fought with them both in the war. I know Maħmūd better than I know-- just, please, let him loose. Clearly he knows I'm alive, and the odds are good that he's already reported--' Quatre's head fell back, eyes closed as if he prayed for strength.

'Rashid,' Sally mused. 'Rashid Maguanac. That's who you mean.'

'Yes. Clearly he realised, or guessed... somehow they got Maħmūd to Earth, to find me.' Quatre rubbed his chest, then stood. 'At least give him credit for competency.'

'How about credit for assaulting a Preventer and a top official from the DoJ?' Noin retorted. 'He's under arrest for a felony. Two felonies.'

'He didn't know who you were, you said yourself!'

'That doesn't matter, legally. The fact is that he was there and he could well have killed us. And he endangered your life, remember-- delaying us from getting to you.'

'And there is the fact that he's on Earth, probably in violation of visa laws,' Sally added.

Quatre had the look of a man pushing past the edges of his limit. 'Zechs,' he whispered, his eyes dark in a mute appeal.

Zechs forced himself to look away. 'Here's what the facts are,' he said. 'We've got three prisoners, yes, but the most important concern is getting Gwyn to safety. We need to get him to the airport and back to Preventers Headquarters before we worry about anything else.'

'No. No, what about Søren? You said he was here, I can't leave until--'

'You'll go where you'll told,' Zechs said harshly. 'This is no longer a matter of choice. We cannot endanger you by leaving you exposed, we have no way of knowing who else knows you're alive and here. You will get on that damn plane!'

'Not without my nephew--'

'Your nephew is in danger because of you, Quatre. You knew it could happen. You made your choice, and now you have to live with it.'

Quatre stared at him. His head lowered slowly, until the angle could be taken for acquiescence.

So it oughtn't have been a surprise that, in the confusion of configuring their prisoners between available vehicles and contacting Command once more to ready the plane, Zechs suddenly realised Rhis was no longer sitting meekly on the couch, and that Quatre was no-where to be found, either.

 

**

 

It was a frantic two hours. Later, Zechs would be both furious and strangely resigned to the experience of it. Living through it was an agony of regret, a terror that the last words he would ever have said to Quatre would be such angry ones, such unforgiving ones.

He reckoned the possible carnage a million ways as they spread out in a search pattern around the house Benat had chosen. It was even further outside civilisation that Quatre's, an ancient slate-roofed farm house alone in wide, snow-drenched fields. Two new pairs of footsteps wandered the yard, finally moving with purpose to a covered garage, and then there were tyre tracks that led off to the road. Unprotected, Quatre only half-dressed in weather that could kill, and no idea where they were going--

Until it hit him, of course. They would go back to Quatre's home.

It was a simple enough deduction, though it took him longer than it ought to have to make it. They had all the right pieces: Bauds had been watching Søren at the Paris Conservatory, most likely waiting for the right time to pick him up. Søren was, at best, leverage to secure Quatre's cooperation, as Benat had done in the basement. At worst, though, Søren was a risk to colonial interests, a young man too thoughtless to keep his guesses about his uncle's public death to himself. That slip with the friend's conspiracy blog could be overlooked, maybe, but Søren's multiple attempts to speak with Preventers had made it look as though he knew something important. Bauds might have discovered in time that Søren knew nothing substantial, but not without personally questioning him, arousing real suspicions, and by then Søren would have had to be eliminated to protect the secrecy. But before Bauds could move on Søren, Duo Maxwell and Heero Yuy had. They clearly hadn't deemed it a risk to make the pick-up public, obviously assuming they would be able to handle anyone coming after them-- two Gundam Pilots who'd managed to hide themselves for a decade in a Sphere that grew increasingly tumultuous. It was no danger to allow Bauds to catch up with them, or more accurately with Søren; was it possible Bauds didn't even know who they were? Not that it really mattered. Bauds had been in contact with Benat long enough to establish Quatre's location, they knew that from Maxwell's brief communication with Chang Wufei. Bauds would have arranged for some kind of transport, a flight or even a boat, and he and his hostages had probably touched land in Wales not long after the Preventers had disrupted the kidnapping in that basement, and taken Benat into custody.

Benat remained cool and decidedly silent when Zechs questioned him, his calmest expression betraying nothing. Had there been further communications with Bauds? Did Bauds know they had moved Quatre to this other place to throw Preventers off their trail? Was Bauds now hiding somewhere, waiting to see which way the wind blew, or had he gone blindly back to Quatre's home in Hope, expecting to be reunited with his puppet master?

No answers, but Zechs knew what Quatre would think. Inaction was not an option. If they waited for Bauds to show himself, they might wait forever; either Bauds would kill his hostages, or they would kill him, but Preventers wouldn't know for hours or even days, and there was no way in hell Quatre would wait that long to find out.

'We don't have the resources,' Beito told Zechs, flat-voiced in an effort to make him listen. 'We've got three prisoners, and there's only four of us. We're pushing regulation as it is. If you go running off trying to track Quatre, you'd have to take a partner for safety, and that leaves us with only two to cover three people who are very anxious to get away from us, who don't hesitate to resort to violence.'

'I know,' Zechs repeated.

'I know it's not what you want to hear. But you cannot go tearing off out there. We have to wait for the back-up.'

'I said I know.' Zechs forced himself to unclench his aching fists from his rifle. They were in an untenable situation. It wasn't just Quatre and Rhis deserting them and heading into a possible ambush. They were in a house with two dead owners who would surely be missed by someone in the morning, and the longer they delayed notifying the locals about the murders, the worse that mess would be. And Benat had figured something was up. He spoke in a low murmur with Wodobinski, ignoring the camera still aimed at their faces. Wodobinski looked like a loose canon on the way to an explosion, and Zechs truly did fear they'd have to incapacitate her in order to control her. 'You're the one who arranged all this drama,' he said then. 'You haven't got real back-up here? Just the two traitors you sent to their deaths?'

Beito bore the insult gravely. 'Lady Une has already dispatched people. They'll get to Quatre. When my people get here, they'll handle Benat. You just have to wait, Zechs.'

It had never been in his nature to wait. He'd had the freedom of Treize's approval, as a soldier in Oz; the freedom of leadership, as Milliardo Peacecraft of White Fang. In those days he'd been able to take off on a whim, on an instinct. He would have taken the best mobile suit, the fastest shuttle, and he would have thrown himself into any battle he liked, with little thought for what difficulties he left behind him. The egotism of knowing his own skills had allowed for that arrogance, the sure belief that he and only he could best the enemy, and that he and only he deserved the honour of it. But he wasn't that young man anymore. He was only a man on a team, a team who depended on him to keep his head together, to fight only for group survival, not personal glory.

After Beito gave up on him, Noin came for her turn. She had the same banked energy as he did, but didn't chafe at the waiting. Instead, she let him pace and fidget at the window, glaring out at the road he couldn't see. He stiffly ignored his old friend, until, at last, she offered to share a stick of gum.

'No,' he declined shortly.

'It'll give you something to grind that's not your own teeth.' She extended it up the distance from her crouch by the wall to his standing height, and he took it finally, though he barely tasted it once it was in his mouth. Then she said, 'If you take my head off, I'll rip you a new one too, so fair warning, but I'm going to say it anyway. We didn't leave him a choice about it. Just be thankful he trusted Rhis enough to take him.'

'A civilian with no idea how to defend himself against killers.'

'He's probably a trained hunter,' Noin guessed. 'Which means he can aim at a head and hit it. Access to guns and ammo, if they stop at his place before moving on to Quatre's. Good enough for me, and obviously good enough for Quatre, too.'

'Not for me.'

He felt her gaze on him. He stubbornly refused to return it.

'Damn,' he heard her say softly. 'I should have seen it. You're in love with him.'

A shred of self-preservation had him looking about for Beito and Sally, but both were occupied as she rebound his wounded shoulder. 'I don't know,' Zechs admitted. 'It-- we both know I--' The words didn't come easily, and he hesitated before settling on one that conveyed nothing, actually. 'I haven't felt strongly about anyone since Treize. I don't know if what I feel for Quatre is like that.' Opportunity, they'd said, the night the dog had died. Intellectual connection. As for the emotional, what had Quatre called it? Obligation. Quatre, so obviously in need of someone who _knew_ him, who believed in him and believed he could survive his ordeal, hadn't once spoken to him about love or romance, and that long-ago expression of thanks for the offer of friendship may well have died under the strain. Zechs had never offered anything but friendship, truly. They had both known that any kind of affair would only be that, and only for as long it took one of them to meet someone else. Someone like Rhis, who wouldn't say cruel things in jealousy, and expect to be obeyed.

And maybe whoever Gwyn Richards was, he was someone who could ask for help without being able to explain anything, and be worth the gift of trust.

'I don't know,' he said again.

 

**

 

When Beito's people finally arrived as promised, Zechs suffered through the protocol of transferring prisoners and lingered every moment he had to in order to fill the new team in on what they'd witnessed and what the situation with the dead house owners was, and the very second he was free he was in Rhis' truck gunning for the road.

Noin was with him, of course, and Sally came too, tugging along her med kit in a grim reminder that they might be heading into worse new conditions. That Beito came was surprising, but when Zechs looked him askance, Beito only answered that he was used to having Quatre as his responsibility.

As bad as the drive had been the first time, now it was somehow worse. It was snowing harder, which made for physical difficulty, but like Beito Zechs had grown used to dealing with certain things in this case, and the frozen British storms were on that list. The tyres squealed and twice he nearly spun off the icy road, but each slip only made him more grimly determined.

When they reached the turn-in for _Ty Llwyd_ , Zechs ripped around the curve fast enough to scratch the truck's paint on the prickly branches of the head-high hedge on either side. Noin gestured for him to stop well back from the house, but he was already doing so, unwilling to risk drawing gunfire if there were a pitched battle going on. Once more they all donned their heat-masking gear. They drew their weapons, checked the load, and exchanged the tiny nods as each found themselves ready.

'Go,' Zechs said, and they did. Zechs ran through the yard, gaining too much lead on Sally who hadn't yet learnt the trick of running in snow, and made it all the way to the neglected trash bin at the edge of the drive when the first bullet shattered the ice at his feet.

He threw himself behind the bin for cover, and the next bullet pinged metallically over his shoulder. Sally fell beside him, scrambling to lay low as a second weapon joined in firing on them. 'Who do you think it is?' she demanded of Zechs. 'The Gundam Pilots?'

'Where'd they get the equipment? They shouldn't even be able to see us.'

'Cover me.' She leant out from behind their shelter, flat to the snow, her rifle with its sight scope set to her shoulder. Zechs threw an arm over her shoulder, protecting her with his body even as he laid down cover fire, taking a chunk out of Quatre's lintel, then obliterating a window pane. 'Whoever's in there,' Sally said, 'it's no-one I recognise, unless Yuy's added a hundred pounds in the last day. We're dealing with unknowns.'

They retreated behind the bin again, just as Zechs' earpiece warned him of incoming communication. Sally's head turned as she, too, received it.

 _'We're in back,'_ Noin repeated. _'There's someone in the barn under fire. The truck Quatre stole is here, abandoned. Unless Maxwell and Yuy came here to settle some old score with Quatre, there's too many people discharging weapons around here.'_

Possible that Bauds had hired men, with resources provided by Benat. Possible that there were simply more colonial sympathisers networked in place for this, and Quatre had triggered it by coming back in reach. 'I don't care who they are,' Zechs told his team. 'Take them out. It's imperative we recover Quatre.'

He was interrupted by a renewed spray of bullets, fired with particular vigour. He and Sally slumped lower instinctively, before it registered the aim had begun far to their left, though it then came curving back toward their hiding spot again. Zechs was tensing to return fire when a body hurtled out of the darkness and landed all but in his lap.

'Heya,' Duo Maxwell panted at them. 'You don't have a spare clip for a Glock, do you?'

Sally recovered first from the surprise. Her answer was to pass him the requested clip, unhooking it from her utility belt and tossing it over Zechs. Maxwell discarded his empty mag to the ground and slammed the new one into place with an easy slap of the wrist, then rose sinuously to his feet to fire over the plastic lid of the bin. His shots were perfectly precise and controlled, and after only two he produced a faint scream from inside the house. He fired four more, and when he dropped into a crouch again, they had a hesitant moment of peace before a much more scattered response barrage began.

'Down to three inside,' Maxwell said. He was almost cheerful, Zechs saw with disgust. 'I better go if I want Heero to save me any. Quat's in the barn, by the way.'

'Wait!' Zechs grabbed him by the arm before he could make another dash into the night. 'Where's the boy?'

'Safe. No worries.' Maxwell stood, ignoring the spatter of plastic that rained down from a particularly close shot. 'You realise all this would've been easier if you'd let Wufei and Trowa come too, don't you?' he asked, and then he was gone.

'Jesus Christ,' Sally muttered.

 _'I know this is the wrong time,'_ Beito's voice informed them, _'but I have to admit, I have always wanted to see the Gundam Pilots in action. Still, it would be a little shameful to let them take all the kills.'_

Zechs was inclined to agree. Then, to his own amazement, he discovered he was laughing. 'You heard him,' he said. 'If we want a share of the action, we better get in there and take it.'


	22. Twenty-Two

As gun battles went, it wasn't much for excitement. The Preventers had the advantage of training, and they took the house by storm, sweeping through and pushing their assailants back room to room until they reached a final standoff in the kitchen. Quatre's property suffered a little for the process, but they managed to subdue two of the enemy. The third died from a well-placed bullet fired by Noin. There were six others already dead, the work of Maxwell, Yuy, and Quatre. The numbers helped in persuading their new prisoners to observe the spirit of surrender, especially when Sally cuffed them to their dead partners to drive the point home.

They had a little more trouble clearing the rest of the property. The fight had spread through the yard. Zechs left his companions to pick them off and made straight for the barn, where he discovered, through the benefit of his night-vision headset, that the Gundam Pilots had taken to the rafters and were attempting to sniper the tight knot of gunmen who were bringing down the stable bullet by bullet. It seemed that these enemies, unlike the ones in the house, didn't have the benefit of like equipment, because their return fire was hesitant and often off the mark. Still, they were protected by the clutter of the old farm machinery inside, large metal contraptions that provided both shielding and shadows, and neither Maxwell nor Yuy seemed to have night-vision, either. Quatre, holed into the dubious shelter of the old washing machine, could do nothing more than huddle.

Zechs had no concentration for anything but getting to Quatre. He recklessly took the very risks he'd been trying to talk himself out of all night. He walked right into the line of fire, just for the chance to take a body-shot at one of the gunmen. Overhead he heard a riff of laughter-- it had to be Maxwell-- before Yuy dropped from the ceiling into a bone-grinding crouch in the hay right beside him, full in the light from the open door. The gunmen, seeing their own opportunities, emerged just far enough from their hiding spots to try for two easy targets. Guns fired from all angles-- Zechs and his old rival Yuy, and there from Quatre's position, Maxwell overhead, Beito from behind Zechs and Noin through a window on the far side of the barn, perfectly, instinctually orchestrated-- and then, just that neatly, it was over.

Yuy rose from his landing, leaving a spent magazine behind him. 'Well done,' he said gravely, his dark eyes unreadable.

Zechs found he could breathe again. Could think again. He inclined his head, stiffly, but only because there was no other proper response. It was not respect that Yuy offered, after all. It never had been, and Zechs never expected to receive it. It was merely an acknowledgment that he'd done his job. Yuy's adult face was not much different from the youthful one Zechs could remember with painful clarity. A few more lines, flesh a little heavier than that lean and deadly boyhood. But the mind behind it, that was unchanged, permanent as a mountain, and just as remote from the world.

Not so Maxwell, who came dropping into the dirt much more lightly than Yuy. He clapped his friend on the shoulder and even went so far as to nudge Zechs in the arm with a congratulatory fist. 'Not bad, not bad,' Maxwell said, grinning sharply. 'Nice bit of exercise, even if they didn't put up much of a fight.'

Yuy's granite expression soured. 'All things equal, I'm glad they didn't.'

'Pshaw,' Maxwell said. He stretched his shoulders, planted his hands on his hips as he turned a satisfied gaze on the bodies of the gunmen. 'Amateurs, anyway. Hey, Quatre!' he hollered then. 'Get your ass out here and come say what.'

Quatre was indeed emerging, though he seemed worried about something inside his pen. Zechs came back to himself with a start, and jogged the distance. Quatre glanced to see him coming, and said, 'We need medical.'

'Are you hurt?' His chest seized. Blood, on Quatre's jacket. But before he could even land a hand on Quatre's body, Quatre denied his assumption.

'Rhis was shot.' Ah. Yes, when he turned his head around the much-battered edge of the washer, there sat Rhis, a miserable stoop holding a bloodied rag to his left shoulder. 'It's only a flesh wound, but it's too cold,' Quatre fretted. Protectively he rubbed Rhis' neck. 'The house is clear? We need to get him warm.'

'I'm all right,' Rhis answered, but his teeth clattered saying it, and there was an unhealthily pale tinge to his lips. He managed to stand, leaning heavily when Zechs slipped under his better arm to support him. 'Wouldn't... wouldn't mind a cuppa, though.'

Quatre broke into a jagged smile that disappeared almost as quickly. 'Yes,' he said, almost steadily. 'Yes, just inside. You just have to get inside.'

'Sally,' Beito called. 'A patient for you.' He stepped in to help Zechs balance the young man between them; Quatre was too short to be of much help. 'You did a fine job, son,' Beito told Rhis. 'But time for you and I to go rest our weary battlements. You know, I think we've got matching war wounds.' His kind wink elicited a drawn smile.

'I've got you,' Sally said, and Zechs willingly gave her charge of the situation. He watched them make a hobbling course for the open barn doors before turning back to Quatre.

'You're all right?' he asked softly.

'My nephew,' was all Quatre replied. 'Where is he?'

'He's good.' That was Maxwell, tired of waiting on their attention. But his flippant attitude was gone in the face of the muted desperation Quatre turned on him. 'He's okay,' he repeated gently. 'A little shaken up, I won't lie, but no-one's laid so much as a finger on him. He's a tough little guy, too. He was all for coming in here with us. He's a good kid.'

'Where is he?' Quatre said. 'Please, Duo.'

Yuy answered. 'I'll go for him,' he said, nothing more. He turned and walked out of the barn.

'Nearby,' Maxwell clarified. 'We let Bauds find the place, and when we knew where we were headed, we ditched the dead weight and took the car. The kid's still in it. Made him swear.'

'You've never met a fifteen year old?' Quatre demanded. 'No boy his age would stay in the car, any more than we would!' Maxwell opened his mouth to answer, but Quatre had already turned back to Zechs. 'You have to help me. He could be anywhere. If he came too close, all the gunfire--' As soon as he thought it, alarm drained all the colour from Quatre's face. 'Zechs,' he said weakly. 'If he's hurt...'

'He won't be.' Zechs gripped him tightly. 'He'll be safe. I promise, Quatre.'

'Help me find him.'

'I will.' He hesitated, though. 'I couldn't make you go back to the house with Rhis, warm up. At least to find a warmer coat.' He shook his head, already giving up the idea. He unclipped a hand torch from his vest and handed it over. 'Let's go.'

'I'll help,' Maxwell said, and joined them just that easily, though once they were out of the barn he split in a different direction, with just a hand signal to indicate a possible search spread. Quatre followed it without argument, and Zechs trailed him at a distance, though once they reached the border hedge he reluctantly let Quatre out of his sight. He angled around the front of the house, reasoning Søren might have kept to the road. He passed by the arrival of Une's second wave of Preventers, and diverted two agents, including his old friend Jim Coxxall, to join the search. The rest were headed into Quatre's house to deal with the prisoners and the dead. Zechs hoped that, at the least, there would be a calm and peaceful place to bring Quatre and his nephew back to, not a fresh graveyard.

He heard faint yells, from time to time, sometimes Quatre's voice, though that faded soon enough, sometimes his fellow Preventers. But time was gathering quickly, dawn beginning to peek over the distant hills and the snow-topped trees, and no-one had reported in yet that the boy had been found. Quatre's fear began to grow in Zechs, too. It was worse than the search for the dog had been. Quatre's frantic calls then had disturbed Zechs, but it could be nothing to the panic he must feel at the thought of losing another loved one. The beloved son of a dead sister, who had only wanted to know that one fragile connection still lived in a scary, lonely world. Zechs recalled his own harsh words to Quatre with even deeper remorse. He shared responsibility for Søren. He had been the one to drop that first fatal hint, hadn't he? Rejuvenating hope when Søren instead should have been gently guided into a passing grief and acceptance. And, some horribly cold and practical part of him wondered, what would come of reuniting them now? Quatre would only have to be hidden again, somewhere new, somewhere impossible to unearth, and Søren would be just as alone as before, but with the burden of an awful secret added to his troubles.

The sun had just cleared the tree-line when he found the tracks.

He tapped his ear-piece to contact all listeners, and said, 'I've got something. I'm approximately a mile and a quarter north along the road.'

 _'Roger,'_ Coxxall answered. _'We'll join you ASAP.'_

The tracks were headed toward Zechs, toward the house, little shoe-prints that wandered through the slush at the side of the road. He backtracked himself, following their progress, a messy spill that had left a solid deep hand-print. Then the footsteps veered sharply off the road. Zechs clambered through the muddy sludge, twisting his knee painfully in an unexpected ditch, and found the split-rail fence about a yard off the road. There was a sort of ladder for climbing the fence, a tall pole and a few stepping posts. He slid through another deep mud puddle on the other side, but he was not the first to do so. Two sets of tracks, now.

'Søren!' he shouted. 'Are you here?' He used the branch of a nearby tree to haul himself back onto relatively stable snow crust. 'Søren, we're looking for you. Hang on. Call back if you can hear me.' Nothing but silence. There had been a struggle in the snow here. Had Maxwell said what they'd done with Bauds? They surely wouldn't have been stupid enough to leave Bauds mobile, especially if Bauds knew where they were going. To leave Søren alone with Bauds on the loose would be unconscionable; not even the Gundam Pilots would be that callous-- would they?

'Søren!' he called again. 'I'm here to help. Make a sign if you can hear me!'

He'd had worst fears realised before. Friends dead, hopes dead. Horrible mistakes wrought by his own hand. But those had largely been the follies of youth, in the height of passions and despair that only the truly young could feel, when the imagined was as terrifying as the real. He was a man of thirty-three now, old enough to have reconciled his losses and his failures, to harden himself to tragedies so that life could be lived even through grief. But he'd never had a son, or even thought he ever would, and so it was quite the unique feeling, to be in utter dread of the silence after his call.

'Søren!' He was going hoarse from the dry blustery wind, and his hands and feet were both numb with the cold, after so many hours of running about in the ice. 'Søren!'

He threw up an arm to aim at the dark and adult figure that appeared from a copse of tall fir trees in the valley beneath his hill-side fence. But even as he threatened to shoot, the figure raised both hands high, unarmed, waving at him. For help? Zechs cautiously slid downhill, fetching to a halt against a huge slate boulder.

'Who's down there?' he shouted.

'My name is Meirion Jones!' the man yelled back. 'There's a boy down here who's hurt! We're waiting on you!'

Jones. He knew that name-- it came back in a rush. Meirion Jones, the shop keeper who had been the first man to greet them when he and Quatre had come to Hope. But what was he doing out here?

He made it to the bottom of the hill in a spray of loose snow, and Jones helped him back to his feet, pulling him along to the trees. 'You're Preventers?' Jones asked him.

Maybe Søren had guessed, seeing him coming? 'Yes,' he said cautiously. 'How badly is he hurt?'

'Twisted ankle, nothing life-threatening, but painful.' Jones ducked a low-hanging branch dripping with icicles. There was Søren, exactly as promised, huddled at the base of a tree and looking frightened out of his wits. He scrambled back on his hands and bottom when Zechs appeared out of the light. 'It's all right,' Jones soothed him. 'He's come to help.'

Zechs crouched at Søren's side, testing both ankles with careful touches. Søren hissed when he brushed at the left. Zechs peeled back the pantleg to check it. Swollen, evidently very painfully. 'It's Agent Merquise,' he said softly. 'Meirion's right. I'm here to help you.'

'Agent Merquise?' Søren straightened in relief. 'Are they all right? Mr Maxwell and Mr Yuy? They were gone for so long--'

'They're all right. Everyone is all right.'

'Everyone?' Eyes so exactly like Quatre's stared hopefully at him. 'My uncle?'

'Yes, we heard quite a bit of gunfire at Ty Llwyd,' Meirion remarked. He was a little too casual saying it, though, and Zechs subtly evaluated him as he tested Søren's ankle. Big man, but past middle age, with a large beer gut; not likely a fast runner, and alone, or at least--

'The situation is under control,' he answered gruffly. 'Søren, I don't think you should walk on this. I'll send for a car for you.'

'Sir, my uncle?'

Something exceptional, extraordinary, in that devotion to another human being. It wasn't a question of forgiveness or even guilt. Just sheer determination to have each other safe again.

Providential, then, the timing of Quatre's arrival. He heard the grumble of an engine from the hill above, the slam of doors. A body came hurtling pell-mell down the slope, and a name was shouted.

'Uncle Quatre!' Søren cried, and then Quatre was with them, on his knees in the snow. Zechs rose carefully out of the way. They were wrapped in each others' arms, flat on the ground, each trying to out-talk the other in a stream of querulous relief. Quatre's breaths came in puffs of steam, choked but unashamed tears. Søren, young enough to remember his audience, was quieter, but his face, buried in his uncle's shoulder, was wet.

Zechs had a few deep breaths of his own to breathe. Jones stood back a ways with him, peering up the hill at the small army of searchers who now spread out to form a make-shift perimetre of safety. Zechs checked his wristwatch. It was nearly eight in the morning. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd slept, but they'd done it. Bloodily, and not without wounds of their own. But they had Quatre, they had Søren, and all of their own were still alive. That counted as triumph in any tally Zechs had ever made.

'How did you find the boy?' he asked Jones.

'Oh, pure chance,' the man said. He rubbed gloved hands briskly, hid them beneath his armpits for warmth. 'Was on the road headed for Wrexham, actually, to fetch the damn police. All that racket up at Ty Llwyd, we knew something was finally coming to a head.'

'What-- what do you mean, finally coming to a head?'

Jones stared at him. 'Well, Good Lord, man, that's Quatre Winner there! You never imagined trouble would stay away from a man like that?'

Weary nerves twitched in automatic apprehension. 'Why do you think he's Quatre Winner?'

The Welshman made a sceptical little snort, waving a hand as if to dismiss him. 'We _have_ got the news service, even in Hope.'

Beito had a lot to answer for, not least of which was going to include how to avoid a repeat performance of this conversation in the next town. 'Of course,' Zechs echoed faintly.

 

**

 

'I want to thank you,' Quatre said then.

It was well into evening now, though almost all of them had long retreated to beds, exhausted not just by the events in Wales, but by the long debriefing afterwards. HQ was full to the top with refugees this night. Rhis, by Quatre's request, had come with them, on the excuse that he knew enough to be troublesome left behind, though Zechs was privately convinced that the entire town of Hope had known Quatre's identity for months. Søren, too, was abed here, the bad ankle propped up with bags of ice as he slept. Quatre had been sitting with those two for hours, talking quietly. Telling the story he said he owed them.

There had been others here to talk to, as well. Preventers had flown Chang and Barton to Sanq, and they'd been waiting anxiously for their plane to land. Zechs had been just awake enough himself to sense something of the-- he tentatively identified it as _historiocity_ \-- the immensity of the moment when all five Gundam Pilots had once more stood together.

Awkward with each other. They'd had little to say. A few questions, easily answered. No-one had quite wanted to give them privacy-- they were, after all, still dangerous individuals, and grumpy ones at that-- but it hadn't been the watchers that had made them mum together. It was the years between, too much unspoken until it could no longer be voiced at all, really.

Barton had lingered the longest. Hovering at the door, his heart in his eyes, the feeling obvious to anyone who looked. Except, perhaps, to Quatre.

'What,' Quatre had said.

Barton had ducked his head, a flinch from the unmoving tone. Gone without a word more, to be taken to his room for the night.

So now it was down to only Quatre and Zechs, who still carried the edge of a long and bad few days of struggle, only muted by the few hours of sleep he'd managed to catch on the plane. They stood alone in a room he and Quatre had once spent a great deal of time in together, the same little conference suite where Quatre had poured out the story of his dealings with the Federated Colonies, where Beito had taught Quatre everything he would need for his new life.

Shattered life. Quatre could never go back to Hope, to friends there, the beginnings he'd made with people who had obviously accepted and liked him enough to protect his identity. Would he be so lucky a second time? Or a third, a fourth? Would he ever find a place of safety and rest?

Zechs turned away from the window, lowered himself onto a stiff couch. 'Breixo's going to tell you this later,' he replied. 'But I want you to know now. If Rhis wants, he can enter the programme with you. Go with you.'

Quatre's lips parted in surprise, his shoulders going back. 'Go with me?'

'He loves you.' Zechs found then that he couldn't quite meet Quatre's eyes. 'He would go with you.'

'He doesn't know anything about me, really.' Soft footsteps, deadened by the carpet, by the hellish night hours behind them. 'It's still just words to him. A fantasy. He'd never been outside Flintshire, before last night.'

'It may be innocent love, but that doesn't make it less real. And Søren. He'll fight to go with you as well.'

'He should have a life. They both should--' Quatre stood against a wall, a slim dark figure in the light of a single lamp, his dark hair making shadows on his face. 'What have I done to them.'

'Nothing you could have avoided. Humans, we... we blunder through life, impacting each other. And despite the hurts, we still love.'

Quatre's eyes were low. 'What would you do now?'

He knew what that question really was. 'One more impossibility,' he said quietly.

'Will you make me say it first?' Quatre whispered. 'Make me ask for everything, while you sit there offering nothing?'

'And what do you think I have to give you? As much as you just gave Barton? As much as you plan to give Rhis?'

White knuckles on Quatre's hands, teeth vicious on the lower lip. Quatre stared away into the darkness.

'Don't thank me,' Zechs told him. 'Because every step I've made with you I've done because it was my job, or because I'd pushed you into it and felt the need to fix it, because you were hurt and I thought I could pacify you for the moment. I did nothing to truly help you. I led you on, in the most literal possible way. So if you want it, I'll tell you I love you. It might be true; I honestly don't know. But in the morning you're still going to have to decide what to do next, and there still isn't going to be a choice that includes me.'

When he rose to go, Quatre refused to look at him. He closed the door behind him, and went to seek his own bed for the night.


	23. Twenty-Three

He answered the knock at his door in his bathrobe, toweling at his wet hair. Sally gave him a teasing whistle, laughing at his grimace. 'Rise and shine, Legs,' she said. 'You're late for breakfast.'

'To be honest,' Zechs answered, 'I'd rather just lay low toady. Recover a little bit.'

'Are you joking? This is our celebration. Safe, sound, and home again. Une's going to give us her good-job speech, we're all going to get drunk on mimosas. We're finally going to meet Réme--'

'Who?'

'Lucy's admirer, the chef-- you should see the spread he's made for us, by the way. We're talking mountains of fattening foods, in the very best way. So put on some pants and get your butt moving.' Her face remained absolutely pleasant as she issue the final command-- but Zechs was in no doubt of the iron will behind it. With a sign, he went to do exactly as he was told.

The buffet was everything promised, a lavish banquet of pastry, fresh fruit and cream, hot eggs and breakfast roasts, and the grand ballroom's worth of very fine champagne in sparkling crystal goblets. Une greeted him as he and Sally entered, a real smile in place, more relaxed than he'd seen her in half a year. Beito was there, at last sporting a proper sling for his wounded shoulder, and the dark-skinned beauty at his side was obviously his wife, gazing at him with amused tolerance as he recounted the capture of the much-chastened Maħmūd bin Rashid, who had been paroled by a generous pardon from the very man he'd shot. Maħmūd seemed a little star-struck by the company he found himself in this morning, unable to eat a thing, clutching a glass of juice very earnestly as Relena spoke gently to him.

There was Noin, ensconced in a large easy chair with a man who could only be her chef-- a dark-haired young Sanqian who watched her with open admiration as she threw her head back in one of her rare, full-throated laughs. They whispered secrets to each other, and he lifted a thumbnail eclair to her lips with tender fingers, chasing it with a kiss.

All the Gundam Pilots were present, too, seated in a rough circle on the comfortable couches. Chang's harsh sobriety was enlivened today with bright eyes; he smiled as Maxwell, hair still a sun-streaked birds' nest but clothes neatly pressed, reached the punchline of a joke that involved much arm-waving and face-making. Yuy even contributed a quiet addition to the tale, producing laughter from the others. Barton's eyes wandered too often to the one of their number who completed the circle, but he toyed with his champagne and said nothing.

Quatre had centre place between Søren and Rhis. His dog Connah, now entirely recovered from its exposure to the CNS gassing, made anxious rounds about a room filled to the top with strangers, but when Quatre called, it took a leap onto the couch and managed to spread itself over all three waiting laps. Søren was enchanted, digging his hands into Connah's thick long fur. Quatre bent to place a kiss on the dog's fluffy ear. Rhis absent-mindedly petted the animal's snout, absorbed and wide-eyed by the spectacle of the Gundam Pilots.

It was to this circle that Zechs cautiously presented himself. Aside from those five, he was the only man still living to ever successfully pilot a Gundam. They were companions of a sort, and he was curious how they would receive him-- particularly given his recent re-introduction to them. Quatre's presence, and the unfinished confrontation between them, made him even more wary, and he was careful not to meet the look that tried to catch him as he neared.

A little silence fell when he stood beside Chang's chair. Maxwell broke it, catching a ragged lock of his hair between his teeth to chew. 'I kind of remember you being taller,' he announced.

Zechs smiled. 'I was, to a fifteen year old's perspective.'

Maxwell grinned. 'Touché. Well, you're still plenty big, so sit down. I'm not craning my neck at you all morning.'

That galvanised them. Barton shifted left on his loveseat, and Zechs lowered himself into the offered space. 'Thank you,' he said.

Chang took his turn next. 'Shall we declare détente?' he enquired, dry-voiced.

A fair question. After all, all they'd said and done, they'd done because they'd thought they had to-- both the Gundam Pilots and Zechs and the Preventers. To achieve exactly what they had now.

'Agreed,' Zechs replied immediately. 'At least through breakfast.'

'I meant to tell you, Quat,' Maxwell said. 'I like the hair.'

Attention swung neatly away from Zechs, except for Maxwell, who winked just a little. Zechs hid a smile. Neatly done, even if it did force Quatre to participate instead.

Quatre was, in fact, a little red-faced. 'Breixo's idea,' he explained. 'To help the illusion.'

'I think it works. I think it makes you look like me, actually, so I totally dig it.' A smattering of chuckles followed that, and Maxwell threw an arm over the back of the sofa. 'So,' he added, 'what was it like out there?'

'Cold,' Quatre said promptly, and even Chang outright grinned. 'Very cold. I don't think there was a single day it didn't snow, or sleet, or storm, or at least drizzle.'

'No, really, though. What was it like? I mean you changed your name, I don't even know what you did up there.'

Quatre's eyes slid to Rhis. 'It was...'

Rhis managed a small smile of his own, gazing down at Connah's small head. 'You can admit it. Nothing at all what you're used to, I can see it. After this place. All these important people.'

Quatre hesitated, almost speaking twice. Then, 'I think I would have been happy there one day,' he said. 'Everyone there was good to me. I'd forgot that people could be good, really. I'd forgot-- what it was like to have friends and to trust, and... and how to be able to-- give that back to people.'

Barton jarred them all by speaking suddenly. 'You were the one who got strange,' he accused. He lifted his head to stare with aggressive blankness. 'After the war. You were the one who left, to go back to the Colonies, you were the one who turned into a collaborator--'

'Trowa,' Chang interrupted. 'I think you've had enough to say.' And enough to drink, apparently. There'd been an ever-so-slight slur. There was no subtle way to relieve Barton of the champagne, but Chang didn't try to be subtle. Barton watched the flute go with a frozen scowl.

Zechs knew it wasn't his place to say a damn thing, but it was on the tip of his tongue, to protest, to tell them all just how bad it had been. He kept it in with an effort. Quatre didn't need to be defended, least of all by him, and he could only damage the tentative bond reforging between the Pilots by putting himself smack in the middle of their internal conflict.

Søren was not so wise, however. He jumped to his feet, heedless of the dog that went spilling to the ground, or of his wrapped foot. He was flushed with fury and even shook off Quatre's attempt to pull him down again. 'You take it back!' he said. 'My uncle did it to protect us! He's a good man and he did it to save all of us, because of what they did to my mother. And I would do it, too, because if you don't have your family you don't have anything!'

'I agree.' It was Relena, who had come unnoticed in the furor. Her little hand settled on the couch beside Rhis, who twisted to stare at her. She smiled at him, but there was less warmth in the look she directed at the Pilots. 'The choices we made as teenagers were made in complete independence from consequences,' she said. 'But my own father, Richard Darlian, lived with exactly the same fears Quatre had. When the Sanq Kingdom fell, he collaborated with the Alliance, to save my life. What wouldn't we do for our children? What pains wouldn't we take onto ourselves to spare their pain? What shames?'

'Is that how you feel, Quatre?' Barton demanded. 'You think you had to do it? Or was it just easier? You got to keep your money and your nice home and--'

'No,' Quatre answered, just as abruptly as Barton had. 'No, you're right. I did everything you say. But I'm not going to apologise to you, I'm not begging forgiveness, not from any of you. Because whatever else I did, I at least tried to live in the world we made with the war. I didn't run away from it, I didn't hide in a university, I didn't sign off on friends who were supposed to support me and help me. And I damn well didn't blame any of you for taking the easy way out. For years I told anyone who'd listen that I understood, that you'd done what you had to, what you'd earned. But I could damn well have used my friends at my side.'

It was a quiet outburst, delivered with cold calm, but the others felt something of the force of it, like a shadow passing over the room. Other conversations around them faltered, almost stopping. Then, with nothing else emerging, they resumed slowly.

Yuy set his glass to the table, and stood. Zechs watched apprehensively, sure he was about to witness the fatal breakup of a group just barely reunited. But all Yuy said, with direct simplicity, was, 'I'm sorry, Quatre.' And he extended his hand, palm out and upturned, waiting.

Maxwell came to his feet, too. 'I'm sorry too,' he repeated. His round face was unwontedly sombre as he, like Yuy, put out his hand. 'For all of that. You're right. We should have stuck around, or at least kept in contact. Then we would have known you were in trouble. For whatever it's worth, though, Heero and me, we're thinking after this, it might be-- I mean, it _is_ , time, to settle down in one place.'

Chang added his own regret. 'The time for coping is past,' he said. 'Old wounds don't heal in the dark.' He joined the other two, bending his shoulders in a low bow. 'When I thought you were truly dead, murdered by your enemies, I grieved for lost chances, and for my own mistakes. But you're right. It's not enough to play our part in this adventure and then let it all return to the way it was. You have my pledge it will not be that way again.'

Søren was all eyes, now. Rhis was puzzled by the mystery, in a little awe of all the old, bitter history. Zechs knew how that felt.

Barton sat with his head bowed, his face pale.

'”Forgiveness is not forgetting, it's letting go of the hurt,”' Zechs quoted. Quatre's gaze came up to meet his. Why he spoke, he wasn't even sure; but then, he did know, didn't he? For lost chances, and chances he was frightened of losing. 'We all need to forgive each other, Quatre.'

Quatre's fingers played nervously at his throat. He fought for his composure. 'Connah,' he muttered hoarsely, pushing the dog away from his knee. He rose and quickly took each man into his arms, Yuy first, Chang. Maxwell said, 'Damn, I'm going to cry,' and wrapped all three of the others in a massive embrace.

Relena caught Zechs' eyes. Her lips turned up a little. Without another word, she turned and left them to it.

 

**

 

'I've never been so full in my life,' Noin complained.

Réme slung his arm about her waist. 'I'll fatten you up yet. I can't introduce you to my mother looking like a stick.'

'There goes my girlish figure,' Zechs said.

' _Your_ girlish figure?'

'Of course mine,' he answered with aplomb. 'I've been stealing off Noin's plate since we were fourteen. I don't plan on stopping now, especially since she's finally got good food.'

'Don't think he's kidding,' Sally advised. 'I bear witness. You won't be so impressive to the ladies when you're sporting a big belly and jowls, Zechs.'

'What will the women of Sanq do for entertainment then?' Relena said dryly. 'At least I'll finally be the most attractive sibling, even if he always will have better hair than I do.' She tweaked a long lock, and Zechs supplied a comical wince.

'Don't listen to her,' Noin rejoined, mostly because Réme seemed rather stricken by his sovereign's casual dismissal of her own beauty. 'She knows she's gorgeous.'

'Everyone knows.'

Yuy. Walking up so absolutely silent that he'd been unnoticed, until he spoke. His voice was barely louder than a whisper, but it cut through all other noise, like the unblinking blue eyes behind the ragged hair that fell over his forehead.

Relena drew in a sharp breath, and released it very slowly. 'Thank you,' she answered neutrally.

Maxwell was, as ever, not far from Yuy's side, watching the goings-on with a greater twinkle than normal. 'I think now's about the time when the rest of us folk start inching out of the way,' he said. 'That is, if you can do without a chaperon, you think.'

Relena's chin came up, pride stung. 'I can speak to anyone without your help, Duo Maxwell.'

'I didn't mean you, Princess.' Maxwell nudged Yuy with an elbow. 'She won't bite, Heero. Go up to the nice girl and say it just like we practised.'

'I think Duo's right,' Sally murmured. 'That's our cue to move along.'

'Relena?' Zechs asked his sister quietly.

She smiled tensely, but her eyes never left Yuy's face. 'I'll be all right, darling.' She touched his fingers where he cupped her elbow. 'Thank you.'

'They're sweet kids,' Maxwell observed, as Zechs joined the group standing at the end of the hall trying hard not to appear as if they were eavesdropping. 'Coulda done this years ago, if they'd just listened to me, but you know, people so rarely do.' He waggled his eyebrows at Zechs. 'Now why do you think that is?'

'I don't mean to interrupt this largesse of wit,' Noin said, 'but would you kindly explain yourself?'

'Yeah,' Sally agreed. 'You and Heero aren't...'

Maxwell stuck out his tongue in an exaggerated sick face. 'Thank you, no. Sometimes a slap on the butt really is just male bonding.' A strange wistful note crept into his expression, then, as he stared at the pair. 'Still, going to miss the old days. But hey, how many royal weddings am I going to get invited to?'

'I think a long walk is order.' Noin's hand had slipped down to hold fast in Réme's. 'Anyone join us?'

'Yeah, I'll come, if you don't mind. Sally?' Maxwell extended his arm like a perfect gentleman, and Sally pretended to curtsy before she took it. 'A little fresh air sounds good to me.'

'Zechs?'

'No,' he demurred. 'Next time. Thanks though.'

Maxwell twisted back to look as he walked away. 'Quat's still in there,' he said, 'if you plan on doing anything about that while you have a chance.'

Yes. And this time he had to find better words for it. He owed that, to them both.

The door slid open under his touch, and he was stepping in before he realised he heard hushed voices. The first glimpse he had of Barton standing inside, he ducked back into the hall, hand on the latch to pull the door closed again. But instinct, and a snoopiness he didn't like to acknowledge in himself, made him pause.

'You truly can't understand?' Quatre's voice asked.

Ah. So someone had beaten him to the punch, as it were. Remarkable, that a man who assumed rather little about himself should be the object of so much love. Zechs wouldn't have been surprised to see Rhis joining him in queue to see Quatre.

'Why didn't you ever try to reach us?' Barton sullenly demanded. 'You knew Wufei was on Earth, I was in the Colonies too--'

'Why did you assume I'd know that?' Quatre said. 'You never told me so. Was I supposed to magic it out of the air? The last I knew was waking up alone without one word of why.'

Zechs found he wasn't surprised by that revelation. It merely fit with the other pieces of the puzzle of the Gundam Pilots. It was odd, though, almost counter-intuitive, to realise that they hadn't been the tight unit he'd always thought they were. That Oz had assumed they were, really, and what did he know of Gundam Pilots that he hadn't read in the subject file? No more than any other human. And yet so many in OZ and even men from old units that had survived the Alliance had stayed together, kept that connection, simply because it was human to want to be with someone else who had been through the same events. Neither Sally nor Noin would have had to stay in Sanq just because Zechs had chosen to, yet it had naturally happened just so. And Breixo had just mentioned over breakfast that he might enjoy retirement in Sanq; it was the kind of thing that people did, draw together and want to retain that-- the satisfaction that came from loyalty fulfilled. And was there an experience more unique than what those five men had shared? Yet they'd never found cohesion, Quatre had said. Never found a way to make it work.

It couldn't just be their backgrounds. Zechs knew more about them than they might know about each other. Orphans, all of them, though Quatre and Chang had at least had familial support until war had destroyed it. Barton's past was a mystery, probably even to him, but Yuy was an admitted lab rat, an indigent pulled into a scheme that would make him a warrior, and Maxwell was an intrepid adventurer, a restless soul that might never settle, promises aside. Was it an inability, something twisted and ruined in childhood, that had prevented them from accessing the most basic of human desires for companionship? Too much trauma, too much tragedy, and finally too much knowledge of what they'd done in the world? Demons lost their power with time, if one could learn to let them go, but they never disappeared. Zechs was proof of that. Quatre was.

Quatre was, and saying so very gently, very softly. 'I never expected you to stay,' he whispered. 'But I never really knew if you wanted me to come after you. I don't know even now. Do I pursue you until you've heard enough to forgive me? Do I let you go again, because that's what you need?'

'I...'

Zechs would never have tried to look in to see them, but neither did he have to look to know it. His mind supplied the image in stark detail. Quatre's hand on Barton's shoulder, sliding down to grasp his fingers. And then Quatre would step in, because Barton wouldn't, or couldn't, Quatre would take the step, and hold him.

'I'll always love you,' Quatre said. 'The boy you were, so perfect and magnificent. But the man I am today can't take you with me anymore. And you wouldn't want to go, any more than you did all those years ago.'

'I could try,' Barton said, with no more voice than a breath.

'To be a farmer? An electrician in some small town, a launderer, a nobody?' No sound, for a minute. It stretched endlessly, as Zechs strained to hear, strained to make himself leave, before he heard too much.

'It makes me glad to have seen you again,' Quatre said then. 'You have no idea how glad. But that's all it can be. We had our time, Trowa.'

Steps came toward the door, and Zechs moved just enough to be out of the way of the door. Quatre emerged, pulling the door shut after him. He didn't seem surprised to find Zechs standing there.

'You heard?' Quatre asked.

He nodded. 'I'm sorry.'

'So am I.' Quatre fiddled with his hair, pushed it back behind his ears. 'I, um, I need to-- be a little sad, for a while.' He looked anywhere but at Zechs, who prepared himself to make some courteous statement and move on. Then he felt a stare on him, and raised his eyes to Quatre's.

Quatre said, 'Does your room have a window?'


	24. Twenty-Four

Zechs shifted his damp towel from the bed and onto a chair. Quatre was wandering his room. His suite at the palace had most of his personal effects, and he didn't stay at HQ all that often, but he had a few pictures, a few mementos-- relating almost solely to his service in Oz. It had taken years, but he had come to the decision that he did want to remember those years, the positives and the negatives. Quatre stood before the official portrait he'd had taken as a freshly graduated Private First Class at Victoria Academy. He'd been fourteen then, rocketing through Treize's newly designed programme, the star pupil and the perfect exemplar of it.

'You had a baby face,' Quatre observed suddenly. 'I'd never have thought it without seeing it.'

'You had a baby face too, back then.'

Quatre pushed impatiently at his hair, shoving it away from his face. 'I loved Trowa from the moment we met. Before that moment. I _felt_ him coming. Before I ever saw him even.'

It was on his tongue to say something about childhood loves. But that was disingenuous. Treize hadn't been a childhood love for him, not in that way. If it had been a childhood love, Barton wouldn't have come so far on the risk of being rejected.

Quatre passed a hand over his eyes. 'Is it ridiculous to be so angry with him? But I am. It makes me so _furious_ to have to be the one to say it all. To have to see him again now, after all this time, when I'd finally reconciled it all.' His hand closed over his mouth and stayed there as the moments stretched into a minute. 'I am furious,' he whispered. 'I feel so destroyed by it. How dare he make me remember what it was like, to be the boy who loved him like that? I'd almost forgot it and locked it away. He stands there looking at me like that--'

Zechs knew something about that, at least. It was the way Quatre had looked at him last night.

He had to clear his throat to speak. 'You should talk to him again,' he said. 'Explain it to him. He deserves the explanation.'

'Explain it to me, first. I'm-- on the edge of panic.'

'You're not.' He took the steps between them, to lay a hand on Quatre's shoulder. 'It's just harder this time, because you know what's coming.'

'More hard work.' Quatre managed a small smile; it faded before it quite settled on his bitten lips. 'Somewhere warm this time, please?'

'I'll mention it to Beito.' He squeezed Quatre's shoulder. 'Have you decided yet... will you take Rhis?'

Quatre's lips hovered parted. 'I've decided.'

He thought yes. He wasn't sure. Quatre's eyes seemed to want reassurance.

He nodded. 'It will be better this time. Benat's arrest won't be so easily dismissed this time. We can keep him here, in official custody.'

'Assaulting anonymous Preventer witnesses holds more water than killing an innocent woman in his own nation.'

'Don't think of it like that. Justice is bigger than laws, sometimes.' He lifted his other hand to Quatre's biceps. It took a few pointed tugs, but Quatre finally came in close enough that Zechs could embrace him. 'Listen,' he whispered. 'Forgive me for the way I spoke to you last night. It was-- everything, the... I was so terrified for you.'

'I'm sorry.' He felt the warmth of Quatre's breath against his chest. 'I'm-- I'm truly sorry. For everything. I--'

'Don't.' They were mutually silent then, and he let himself enjoy, with no dramatics or undue melancholy, the sensation of a lover in his arms. It had been a rare thing in his life, and it was something to be treasured without the unfair detraction of knowing it would have to end soon.

Maybe Quatre felt something like that, too. He didn't quite relax, but his stance became easier, so slowly that Zechs only noticed it at once. His hands came to rest warmly on Zechs' hips, and his cheek settled to Zechs' sternum. Zechs wrapped him close.

'I do love you,' he whispered. 'Hell of a way to tell you, but I do.'

'Zechs.' Quatre separated slowly. His palm smoothed over Zechs' chest, resting over his belly. 'Everything changes tomorrow. I have today, one more day to be myself before I have to be someone new again.'

'Your friends will want time with you.'

'We both know you won't be able to hide me from them. For better or worse.'

'For better or worse, I think I'm glad.'

'And you? Will you...' Zechs didn't have to ask if it hurt to say. It was obvious. Quatre's lips thinned in pain. His eyes were closed as if the daylight was too much to bear. 'Will you keep track, too?'

He thought about it. He imagined how it would be-- visiting whatever new home Quatre would make. With the new family he would have there, Rhis as his lover, Søren his son. He knew, of course, that Quatre wasn't truly extending an invitation, wasn't truly asking for an extended and hushed romance with an old playmate. He would have the real thing. And because Rhis was a good man, a gentle man, it would be a good and tender relationship, a love that neighbours would remark on, that would craft for Søren a fine and virtuous ideal of what love between equals should be. Quatre would have what he deserved, someone who would worship without idolising, someone who would forgive instantly and compassionately and still make Quatre a better man. It wasn't passionate and immortal love; that was for the boys they hadn't been in many years. That was as it should be.

It wasn't a future Zechs should interrupt.

Quatre drew a deep breath. 'I know,' he murmured. 'I just thought I'd... ask.'

Quatre's cheek was soft under his hand, smooth from a fresh shave, the soft eyelids a translucent pale blue traced by his fingertip. 'It's been a long road.'

'I'm still walking.' Quatre leant against his palm. 'I'll miss this. Touching you.' Quatre's hand on him began to move, creeping upward along the buttons of his shirt. 'I'm going to ask you to let me stay, at least for a little while. I'm going to ask you to, to-- lay me out on the bed and treat me like a princess for an hour.'

He fought a grin. 'I'd like that more than I should.'

'There's not the least bit of the bourgeois about you, is there.' For a moment, something of Gwyn Richard's darkness threatened. But then it was Quatre again, self-possessed and unafraid. 'I expect to see stars.'

'I'm sure you didn't mean that to be intimidating.' It was Zechs who hesitated, then. 'I don't have protection, here.' He'd never taken another man back to these rooms.

Quatre's lips moved in an unspoken curse. But in the course of a breath he came to a shrug. 'I'm not going to get pregnant. And-- you're not going to get anything from me.'

'Are you sure?'

'This is what people do in my situation, anyway, isn't it? Give themselves wholly to their dream man?' His voice softened uncertainly. 'I'm not-- not entirely being facetious. I'm sorry-- I'm-- if the idea doesn't repulse you. I've gone my entire life being careful, and I won't lie and say there's not a part of me that wants to spit into the wind right now, but...'

He bent for Quatre's mouth, as it turned up to him. The first kiss was a tacit good-bye; they both felt it. But in the second was only an acceptance of the moment. Warm hands slid under the hem of his shirt, as he found skin of his own to stroke. He walked Quatre slowly backward to his bed. Quatre shed shirt and shoes and settled backward, kicking at the sheets. Zechs stood looking down at him for a moment, some impulse to freeze the image for memory warring with a lingering distaste for casual sex. But it wasn't casual, even if Quatre was trying to pass it off as such.

Treize had called it that once, too-- spitting into the wind of fate. You knew it might come back to you, but human impetuosity was never inglorious.

He pressed his mouth to Quatre's lips softly. 'Let me drop the blinds, princess.'

 

**

 

As Quatre predicted, everything reverted to form the next day.

When Zechs emerged just after dawn HQ's corridors were already flowing with people. Agents and friends greeted him as he walked past, headed for his desk to check his messages. He rather felt as if he'd been gone for months, though in reality it had been little more than a weekend. When he passed by Administration, he saw Une in her own office with her deputy, Arnel Hoskins. Filling him in, no doubt, on all that he'd missed. It would be an embarrassment for Hoskins, a career miracle for Une. And she would handle it with the same deft and devastating verve she always did.

Noin was sitting on the edge of his desk, kicking idly at his waste bin as she waited for him. 'No Réme?' Zechs asked her. 'I thought for sure you'd take a day off to enjoy the reunion.'

'We're both slaves of the state, my friend. Only princes and princesses get days off around here.' She tilted her head at him. 'Or perhaps not. You aren't just passing through, are you?'

'I hate loose ends,' he excused himself, sliding into his chair and turning on his computer. 'We've got plenty. Who gets the short straw for interrogating Benat and Wodobinski?'

'Short straw? You kidding? I want to be on hand to turn a few screws. I asked Morgan to find me a cattle prod of our own.'

He didn't exactly disbelieve her on that score. But it did seem to call for a change in subject. 'Where's Sally?'

Noin broke into a wide salacious grin. 'Ohh, you're going to like this one. Guess.'

'How should I know?'

'Who's the last person you saw her with?'

'You,' he said promptly. 'You and Réme were going to go for a walk, and Sally, and-- oh.'

'Oh indeed.' Noin laughed slyly. 'And since he didn't sneak out until this morning carrying his belt and shoes, I'm going to guess he made it worth the while.'

Zechs felt heat in his cheeks, though why he wasn't sure. Sally was a grown woman capable of making her own choices, and certainly there were worse choices to be made in the world than Maxwell, if one were-- curious. In fact Sally had never particularly bothered to hide her sex life, at least amongst her close friends, and while it occasioned some good-natured teasing, Zechs had always admired her straight-forward refusal to apologise for her sexuality.

'It keeps Maxwell near the palace, anyway,' he said, trying to concentrate on the screen and his email. 'I suppose Yuy will appreciate the support.'

'I don't know if I'd go so far as to predict wedding bells, but I've been wrong before.' He could feel her eyes on him, the change in her mood. She nudged him with a knee. 'Hey, you all right? Relena can take care of herself, you know.'

God, he'd almost forgot about that. So much for protective older brother. 'Have you talked with her at all?'

'I didn't want to interrupt them.'

He almost gave himself whiplash, whirling around so fast to face her.

It made her burst into laughter, too, entirely inappropriately to his mind. 'Not like that,' she hastily assured him. 'They were in the Green Room all night up at the palace, more than adequately supervised by Reaney and crew. I'm reliably informed that all they did was talk.'

'Frighten me like that,' he grumbled, only slowly relaxing his horror at the thought. 'A little consideration for my tender sensibilities.'

'The sooner you see her as an adult, the better off you'll be. Whether it's Heero or not, one day she is going to fall in love, and there's probably going to be sex and babies attendant on that.'

'All perfectly fine. After the vows.'

'Listen to you, Mister Double-Standard.'

'It's different for men,' he said gruffly.

'Oh, is it?' Noin painted an expression of tragic anguish over her face, even going so far as to lift a hand to her forehead. 'Had I known I sinned when I took a man to virginal bed unwedded--'

'Oh, it's not like that.' He nudged her back, knocking her boot off the edge of his chair. 'I was being an ass. I admit that.'

'Yes, you were.'

'But Relena's a special case, and it's not just that she's my sister.'

'I think the only people who are going to care if she can honestly wear white at the wedding are the stuck-up aristocrats who poach off the palace anyway, and if you care what they think, I'll have to put you in for a psych exam. Besides, I don't know why you'd think last night would be what tipped the balance. She spent three weeks in Space with Heero after the Battle of Libra, and two weeks with him after we put down the Barton Rebellion. They didn't spend all that time tied to chairs on opposite sides of the room.'

Zechs couldn't help a wince at that confidence. 'You didn't really have to tell me that.'

'Relena's not a saint. Don't try to force that on her. And if you so much as scowl in her direction I will personally toss you off the parapet, you know.'

'Did you come just to shatter my innocent illusions, or was there a greater purpose to your visit?'

Noin was still frowning at him, but she reluctantly allowed him to turn her toward business. 'Beito and his team are pulling together a new identity for Quatre. They're going to get him started today after breakfast.'

'That's fast.'

'Beito hasn't said as much, but I think after he got contacted by Benat he figured the jig was up. They let it play itself out, but they've been ready with an alternative, now super-secret and confidential. Of course, they have to add in the nephew and that kid from Wales--'

Zechs could not be surprised by that, but it was a twinge still, if a small one. But he was proud of Quatre for making the right call.

Noin chewed on her lower lip. 'You all right with that?'

'Yes,' he said truthfully. 'I've met him a few times on previous trips. There's no question Rhis loves him, whatever his name is.'

'I thought so. When we found Quatre in that house, he called Rhis cariad.'

'What?'

'It means beloved. I sat through most of those language lessons, too.' Noin chucked him under the chin. 'You've done pretty well through all of this, you know. I know it hasn't been easy.' She waited until he dredged up a smile for her. 'Want something to take your mind off it?' she asked next. 'You could join me with the very un-good Minister Benat.'

'I think I might, thank you.' He turned off his screen and rose.

'Shall we have Sally paged, or let her find her way to us in her own time?'

'Page her. Definitely. But before we do this, I want to change. Benat's as squeaky as an eel. I think a little showmanship might be in order.'

Benat was in holding in a far more comfortable cell than Zechs liked; he would have chosen one without a window, much less a nice cot or a functioning toilet, if the option had been left to him. Unfortunately, the rebuilt People's Palace of Sanq did not include a working dungeon. Wodobinski didn't rank as high, and she'd got a windowless corner whose only view was empty cells in either direction. Both had been shoved into blue denim coveralls with large printed numbers on chest and back. The remains of a dawn meal-- spirolina and plain water-- were untouched in her cell, but Benat, ever civilised, had improvised a table out of his knees and was eating at his cot. His expression was calm, even ironic, as if he were enjoying the situation.

'I don't suppose I have anything to barter for coffee,' he called as they approached.

Sally and Noin, the only official agents in their group, stepped forward first to relieve the guard, but Benat was the one who rose, looking sharply past her. 'Prince Peacecraft,' he said flatly.

Zechs inclined his head, knowing the orange overhead lights would catch in his silver circlet, ripple over the golden epaulets at the shoulders of his flashiest formal coat. 'Minister. I'd heard we had an important guest in Sanq again.'

Benat, as Zechs had observed previously, had a very quick mind, and it didn't take him long to reassess his odds. He didn't make any pretence of crying out his innocence or demanding to be let go. Instead, he simply extended a hand through the bars, palm up.

That, Zechs thought, took a certain amount of balls. He accepted Benat's hand, pressing it briefly with his own. 'You're in a great deal of trouble,' he said.

'For the moment.' Benat released him, to slip his hands casually into the pockets of his coveralls. 'How is your charming sister? Well, I hope.'

'Very.'

'And Quatre? Fully recovered?'

That paused him. 'I believe there's no lasting harm,' he admitted cautiously. 'I'm surprised to find you so solicitous of his health.'

'Not at all. Quatre and I have a long-standing friendship.' Benat smiled easily at him, head cocked just a little. 'I am glad to be through with this fantasy of his demise, however. The world was a dimmer place without him in it-- even temporarily.'

'I'm sure he'd be flattered.' Sally swiped her ID card through the lock release, and Benat's cell slid open. 'Why don't you join us in a more comfortable venue, Minister?' she asked him. 'We'll see what we can do about that coffee.'

'How kind, Agent.' Benat took his freedom with great aplomb, stepping into the corridor as if he weren't leaving behind a concrete nightmare. He inclined his head to the two Preventers, and bowed to Zechs. 'After you, your Highness.'

Noin caught Zechs' eyes as he turned up the hall, and flicked her gaze to lead him to Wodobinski. The woman was pressed to the bars of her cage, glaring fire at them. At Benat, who never raised his voice to see her released, too. Benat didn't so much as glance at her as he followed them out of Holding.


	25. Twenty-Five

'You have me very much mistaken if you believe this is a simple criminal conspiracy.' Benat favoured Zechs with a bland smile. 'Don't be ashamed, your Highness. It's a common fallacy among Earthers. You people prefer to see us Colonials as addle-brained sheep, content to follow where the loudest bullhorn leads. You inevitably find yourselves surprised and embarrassed.'

Sally shifted her feet. 'You're referring to the war.'

'No, Agent, I refer to our entire history together. Just as not all Colonists chose to believe in Heero Yuy's trumpeting about pacifism, and not all Colonists chose to be loyal to the Gundams or to White Fang, not all Colonists now are content to wait on hand-outs from Earth. Particularly since the resources seem more and more often to be ours, poached for only a fraction of their worth. No, Prince Peacecraft, I'm not a mob boss, cornering a market with the intent of making money on the sly. I'm not a political machine, buying or scamming for votes to achieve a measly authority over a few extra districts. The Colonies are not full of sheep who run at loud noises. Quatre Winner is plenty evidence of that, I should think.'

They'd been at this for an hour already, and had gotten no-where before Benat had wrested control, apparently in an attempt to speechify them into somnolence. Zechs abruptly decided to abandon the round. He sat back in his chair, reaching for the pitcher of coffee that had been set out for them. It was only lukewarm now, but it wet his lips, eased a tinge of headache that was beginning at the back of his head. He set his cup precisely in its saucer, and said, 'I think you're a little in love with Quatre.'

That won a moment of silence, as Benat assessed his angle. 'I have great admiration for him,' Benat said finally.

'No,' Zechs corrected gently. 'I think it goes rather beyond that. And why not? He's a handsome man. A little young for you, but homosexuals are frequently attracted to the youth, aren't they?' It was a brutal blow, and he felt a little ugly for saying it; the sideways frowns he received from Noin and Sally agreed. But it produced a hard scowl on Benat's face, and Zechs pressed the advantage. 'It must have made you feel very powerful indeed, to have a bright young man like that in the palm of your hand. Looking up to you. Taking your advice, your guidance. Until, of course, he realised what kind of man you really were. What man wouldn't be humiliated to be spited?'

'Quite the flight of fancy,' Benat said flatly.

Noin had caught on. Emotionlessly, very much the blank-faced Preventer interrogator, she demanded, 'How long were you lovers?'

That had not truly occurred to Zechs when he'd ventured down this line of questioning. The truth of it was written all over Benat's face, before he managed to control himself. Zechs had the same struggle, trying to keep his expression unrevealing and cold.

'You know he only did it because of the danger to his family,' Sally said softly, insinuating. 'He never loved you back. It was glorified rape, actually. You extorted him.'

'No,' Benat burst out, before slamming his jaws tight. 'It was a relationship,' he grated. 'Between consenting adults. No court will rule otherwise.'

'I see no court judges here,' Zechs shrugged. 'This is a conversation between you and us. Clearing the air.'

Benat wore a dark flush high in his cheeks, now, but a lifetime of reining in his temper was emerging victorious. With a certain admirable calm, he folded his hands on the table and forced a small smile. 'If this is merely a conversation, then you're merely prurient to ask for the details, your Highness.'

Yes, Benat was very good. He would have been a formidable man, if he'd ever chosen to be other than the power behind the throne. 'I've wondered why you were in his room the night he faked his death,' Zechs observed. 'It must have been something, to realise he would rather die than be touched by you again.' He spread his hands in a broad shrug. 'Not to mention the damage it did to your plans. Without Quatre, you couldn't control Winner Enterprises. Without Winner Enterprises, you're practically back where you started. Except, of course, that Quatre has now exposed you as the radical, murdering war-mongers you are.'

'Ah,' Benat said. 'I think you've overlooked something, Prince. There isn't a single shred of proof that I've murdered anyone. Even if you do manage to connect me to this unfortunate debacle in that grubby corner of the United Kingdom, you'll find no charges that will hold me longer than-- say, five years, after parole. And while my political career will surely register some damage, I am the kind of eminently useful person who can find a place in any regime. It might even be Preventers who turn to me for help. After all, who knows more about the Colonies now than me?'

Zechs didn't have to look to know the sinking feeling in his stomach was shared by the two women. No wonder Benat was so calm. He was absolutely right.

'It's important to have ideals,' Benat added. 'And mine were inevitably forged by a fight for freedom that the Colonies may never have in their grasp. When you people come to me begging and bargaining for a spy, a turncoat, a collaborator, I'll have a delicious choice to make, won't I? Shall we make a date of it, Agents, Prince Peacecraft? I do look forward to seeing you all again, in more pleasing circumstances.' He stood, tugging the waist of his jumpsuit as if it were a gentleman's formal suit, hands linking easily behind his back. 'In the meanwhile,' he said, 'give Quatre my regards. He is a fine young man, as you say. I'll miss him.'

 

**

 

'Unfortunately, Benat may have hit the nail on the head,' Une mused. 'And worse yet, we'll still have to go through the show of prosecuting him. The money wasted on lawyers alone will break the bank.'

'The first word out of his mouth is going to be “immunity”.' Breixo rubbed a stubbled cheek, then banged his fist on the arm of his chair. 'Damn. I was just barely getting used to the idea of winning.'

Noin sighed. 'Who's going to tell Quatre?' she asked.

'I will.' Zechs stirred, shoving his balled-up coat across the table. 'He deserves to hear it immediately. It was his hard work that got us this far. He should know what the rewards are.'

'Don't go in there and tell him like that.' Sally touched his hand gently. 'There's still some good that will come out of this. And he and his nephew are safe. As far as I can tell, we've still got our win. What happens down the line, I don't know, but I can tell you where I'll be, offering to testify, on the day of Armand Benat's parole hearing.'

'Maybe we should tell one of the Gundam pilots,' Une suggested. 'And let them carry the message. He might take it better from one of them.'

It was a tempting thought. And it had a grain of truth. It might be easier for Quatre to hear from someone who didn't bear the taint of blame. And God knew it would be easier on Zechs.

'I'll do it,' he said again. 'And I should do it now, before I lose my nerve. Excuse me, please.'

'Take your time,' Une nodded. 'I'll be along later to offer my apologies.'

'We all will,' Noin muttered. 'We let him down.'

Zechs made it no further than the doorway. Duo Maxwell stood in the hall outside, whistling innocently. Zechs glared flatly, and hurriedly pulled Une's office door closed before those inside could see him there. 'What do you want?' he asked.

'I, er, happened to overhear,' Maxwell said.

'I believe it's called _eavesdropping_.'

'In some countries, yes,' Maxwell answered, with great dignity. 'Anyway, I happened to overhear, and so did Wufei, except Wufei already left because he's more of your vein of thought about the whole eavesdropping thing-- highly impractical perspective, if you ask me.'

'Is there a point?'

'Most people like my folksy rhetoric. It sets them at ease.' Maxwell showed him white teeth in a crooked smile. 'May I offer you a suggestion?'

Zechs glanced back, but no-one had followed him out yet. 'What.'

'I know you think Quatre deserves to hear the bad news, and he does, yes, but does it have to be tonight?'

Zechs rocked cautiously on his heels. 'Why not tonight?'

'Well, and hear me out, now-- you've got four other Gundam pilots under your roof here, as I believe I heard mentioned through the keyhole, and at least two of us are still in a position to get ourselves involved in some shady dealings, particularly if the fine Lady Une can manage to look the other way for a few hours.'

The mind conjured any number of shaded meanings in that carefully phrased sentence. 'Are you saying...'

'No-one has to know the details.' Maxwell's round face became hard, suddenly. 'I love the Colonies too, and men like Benat have had the microphone long enough there. It's time to make room for some new voices.'

'If Benat turns up dead in a ditch--' He lowered his voice to a whisper that wouldn't carry, afraid to even verbalise it right outside the Director's very office. 'If Benat turns up dead, fresh out of Preventers custody, that's a very ugly mess for us.'

'So release him.' Maxwell shrugged. 'Transfer him somewhere. Trowa and I can follow his car and take care of business a couple miles off your property. It wouldn't hardly be friendly to ignore the little details.'

He wanted to do it. Oh, did he want to do it. But it was unconscionable. He absolutely could not be party to casual murder. 'It makes us no better than him,' he said thickly. 'I'm sorry. No.'

Maxwell smiled. He patted Zechs on the elbow, ignoring his wince. 'Very well said,' he applauded. 'And very mannerly, too. Of course, we're going to do it anyway. But plausible deniability is a precious resource in a grey world, isn't it?'

Zechs grabbed Maxwell by the arm. 'You can't! I'll-- arrest you both, if I have to.'

'I know you mean well, but now I think you're showing an inflated sense of Preventers capabilities.' Maxwell gazed up at him with patent sympathy. 'There's no lock in the world can hold me if I don't want to be kept, and the same goes for Trowa. There's many kinds of justice, Prince Peacecraft. You let us take care getting Quatre his.' He slipped a quick step away, dodging Zechs' snap for him. 'And do me a favour? Tell him good-bye for us. I don't think we'll be able to say it ourselves for a while. And thanks for the hospitality. And-- thank Sally too. She'll know for what. She's a great girl, you know that?' He winked once, and then he was gone, melting into the shadows as if he had no more substance himself. Zechs ran after him, but by the time he rounded a corner, he heard nothing but the slam of a door at the far end of the corridor. Maxwell was gone.

'Damn it,' he swore, and turned back for Une's office. He threw open the door without knocking, making his friends inside jump. 'Une,' he barked. 'Call Holding now. Tell them to lock down.'

She was already lowering the receiver of her desktop phone. Her face was pale. 'You're a minute too late,' she said.

Zechs straightened, stung. 'They can't have-- already-- I just talked to Maxwell here in the hall, and there's no way he could have set this up already--'

'Trowa Barton just broke Armand Benat out of his cell,' Breixo told him quietly. 'He set off a fire alarm in the guard station. In the confusion, he walked right past them. By the time they were sorted out, Benat was gone.'

 

**

 

'Trowa?' Quatre repeated. His bewilderment became shock. 'He can't have. Why would he?'

'For you,' Zechs surmised. He touched Quatre's knee. 'It seems as though he and Maxwell guessed there wouldn't be much to hold Benat on. Your friend Chang apparently knew it was under discussion, but evidently he didn't believe they were capable of acting on it so quickly. When he threatened to turn them in to us, Maxwell seemed to let it go, but asked him to come speak to Lady Une about alternatives. It kept Chang busy while Barton got away with Benat. As for Yuy, he was with my sister all day. There was no way he could have known it was happening. This was a plan Maxwell and Barton conceived on their own, and it seems they wanted to do it without involving, or implicating, the rest of you. Barton broke him out of Holding, and Maxwell delivered the message.'

'For me,' Quatre echoed airlessly. He looked up. 'Why those two? Duo and Trowa?'

Zechs could only shrug. 'Chang has his career at the University. Yuy... has a chance at a life here, or at least Maxwell thought so, I think. Barton's been just one side of the law for years, though, and Maxwell didn't have the ties to keep him from bowing out. They were the only two who could do it, really.'

'But they'll be hunted for this.' Quatre pressed his hand to his forehead. 'How could they be so stupid?' he whispered. 'They'll never be able to come in, now. I never wanted them to have to run.'

'It was a sacrifice. Made out of love.' Zechs cradled Quatre's hands, chafing gently to warm them. 'We all do stupid things, for love.'

'You think I goaded him into this. The things I said to him.'

'I don't. Truly.' If anything, Barton's actions had proven Quatre right. Barton had never lived by anyone's rules but his own, and Quatre's life had been, would always be, circumscribed by them. But it was as much a declaration of love as if it were spoken words. A final gift. 'Listen,' Zechs added. 'We're looking for them. It's possible--'

'It's not,' Quatre said, with a small bitter smile. 'You'll never catch them before it's done.' He slumped back on the couch. 'There's even a part of me that's happy about it. More times than I'd want to admit, I imagined Armand dead. Painfully. But in the end, no matter what knives he twisted in my life... he was still just a man. It feels-- wrong-- for it to end like this.'

'There are still plenty of people in the Federated Colonies to prosecute. Ramon Lazar, Wodobinski, Eve Vardos. We'll have justice-- of the sort we're used to.'

'The veil of civilisation is drawn once more.' Quatre chewed his lip, then passed it off with a faint shake of his head. 'They're fools. And I can't even thank them for trying.'

'They knew.' Zechs gazed down at the rough skin of his hands, still chapped from his jaunt in the blizzard cold. 'Have they told you your new location yet?'

'Bangor,' Quatre said, 'in Northern Wales. It's a proper city, large enough to get lost in, and it doesn't require new drastic alterations to our identities.'

'The same country?' Zechs tried to smooth his frown. 'That seems risky.'

'Breixo thinks, and I suppose I agree, that it's the last place they'd expect me to be relocated. They'll look everywhere else before they look where I was before. Søren can attend college there. Play the piano.'

'I thought he'd switched to the violin.' Unbidden, his palm had settled on Quatre's knee again. He noticed it, and on a deep breath decided not to move it. 'And you and Rhis?'

'Maredudd and Drew. Rhis chose the names. His cousins' names. They died in the war.'

Something of the connection between Quatre and Rhis solidified. 'That doesn't make you feel-- strange?'

'A little,' Quatre admitted. 'But it was his choice, and if he thinks it's appropriate, I'll learn to live with it.' He dropped his hand to his leg. His fingers touched Zechs'. 'I'm to be a student, too. At the university. Brexio asked me what I'd want to do with all the choice in the world. I'm going to get my MSc in nanotechnology and microfabrication.'

Zechs attempted a laugh. 'That doesn't sound even a little bit interesting.'

'It is, really. I never got to properly study microengineering. And they have a module in RF and optical MEMS.' Quatre trailed off. 'Rhis is taking a position in the national park as a GIS officer. He's very excited. And Connah, of course. Connah will have-- will have all those mountains to run in.'

Zechs swallowed dryly. 'It will be a good life.'

'Yes. A quiet, good life.'

They looked at each other for a long time. Quatre was clear eyed, though his mouth was sad. He curled the tips of his fingers over Zechs'.

'Thank you,' he said finally. 'For everything. You saved me.'

'You saved yourself,' Zechs corrected. 'I just helped you shoot at bad guys.'

Quatre grinned briefly. 'Much appreciated.'

Zechs pushed to his feet. 'I'll leave you now, I think. I'm sure you've got a lot to do.'

'Nothing much to pack, actually.' Quatre hesitated. 'I don't want to say--'

He bent, awkward with the distance, the angle. Quatre's cheek was warm under his hand, and his lips. 'Good-bye,' he whispered.


End file.
